Esteban Rodríguez
10 El árbol
Before the river, a town,
and before the town, kilometers
of land filled with sagebrush,
carcasses, mirages scuttling
like rats. And though everything
looks a like prop, your father
trudges on, aware that the group
he entered this scene with
is no longer behind him,
that in the days to come
he will trek this stretch of earth
by himself, move from bush
to bush, rock to rock, until the sun,
having lashed a thousand fevers
on his skin, commands that his body
buckles, bends, moves beneath
the shade of the nearest tree,
where he will take off his backpack,
sit, sip water like it was the blood
of Christ, and wait till he can rise
again, till he doesn’t feel,
every time he takes a step,
that some part of this world
is about to end.
and before the town, kilometers
of land filled with sagebrush,
carcasses, mirages scuttling
like rats. And though everything
looks a like prop, your father
trudges on, aware that the group
he entered this scene with
is no longer behind him,
that in the days to come
he will trek this stretch of earth
by himself, move from bush
to bush, rock to rock, until the sun,
having lashed a thousand fevers
on his skin, commands that his body
buckles, bends, moves beneath
the shade of the nearest tree,
where he will take off his backpack,
sit, sip water like it was the blood
of Christ, and wait till he can rise
again, till he doesn’t feel,
every time he takes a step,
that some part of this world
is about to end.
Biography
|
Esteban Rodríguez (he/him) is the author of the poetry collections Dusk & Dust, Crash Course, In Bloom, (Dis)placement, and The Valley. His work has appeared in Boulevard, Shenandoah, The Rumpus, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. He is the Interviews Editor for the EcoTheo Review, an Assistant Poetry Editor for AGNI, and a regular reviews contributor for [PANK] and Heavy Feather Review. He lives with his family in Austin, Texas.
Twitter: @estebanjrod11 Facebook: facebook.com/estebanjrodriguez |
