Bosque de Niebla
on the soft muddy road everything gets softer,
in silence, I am awakening to the soul of this world
dark nameless place,
I have missed your secrets
mist, you enter the night
like a stoned old man,
what stories from the country have you come to share?
la ceiba, make paper from the pulp
of my guts,
ink from my scorched fingertips
sometimes the only language I know is death,
and when I speak its name I no longer fear.
ruda, rue, we line the walls
with the shadows of our desires
filling the void with our stories
hola florecita, let us bathe
in the milk of your hunger
and plunge in pools of your deep fragrance
pixquiac, you startle me
with the sharp bend of your elbow,
Where will you carry me?
and when we have come to this place,
we bury the stones that mark the path
mysteries, by living amongst you
as a stranger,
what will be revealed to me?
bosque, the remarkable miracles of your trees
wave to me,
and the cruel joke of self-perception smiles back
baker, I know your hands
were made for love,
I have seen how you make living things rise
If I know one thing it is this:
we are only made whole by the things we do for each other.
To us. To you. To us.
Joal Stein is an independent curator, writer and organizer focused on investigating spatial and social power through contemporary culture, working across art, design, architecture, and social engagement. He can be found online at joalstein.com.
The Los Angeles Press 