Carolyn Evans Campbell: ‘On the Blade of a Day’ and ‘In The Zocalo’

On the Blade of a Day

Man stares at his reflection
in his morning coffee
balances on the edge
of a sugarless death

hides behind a shy day
the wine mark of his birth
the spilled wine
of his life

fears demons swinging
on the trapeze
in his brain, sizzling
on the high wires

How is it then, he gathers
the tatters of his life
about him everyday,
steps out into the morning

postures and puffs
with pebbles in his shoes
feathers in his mouth
knowing he must

build a pyramid, cut down
a casaba, bandage a friend
clear the land
launch a rocket into space

send a child to school
sing the only song he knows
knowing he must not
die today.

Carolyn Evans Campbell

In The Zocalo
Oaxaca, Mexico

When God made the wild things,
surely he was singing,
opening his great throat to free
the fluttering skylarks, the scream
of hurricanes and angry whores,
the timpany of kettle drums,
stomping feet and hallelujahs,
the names of his children’s children
and all their shouts and serenades.

Little frog man, strolling minstrel
with a lolling tongue, one bare foot
and one blue sock, and eyes that look
inward at uncluttered walls,
thwangs a three-string guitar, tilts
back his head, Vida! he sings,

Vida! Vida! Vida! Vida!

His only song, his only word.

So little changes in this old city—
Vida everywhere, vida
in the sticky cheeks of children
with sweet mango smiles flirting
centavos out of pockets,

in the grandmothers with skeins
of white wool braids, curried soft,
armloads of parrot-colored shawls,
secrets woven in their wrinkles,
secrets from kitchen saints that
chocolate mole blesses chicken.

Vida in the young girl sitting
by the bandstand in Sunday silence,
eyes lowered, Hail Marys still clinging
to her lips like beads of honey,
who dares not look into the face
of the boy next to her, dares not
feel the galloping ponies thundering
in his chest, dares not eat
the caramels he has placed in her lap.

It’s all around and inside, vida—
in the foamy coffee, swirling skirts and
lemon sashes alive on the cathedral steps,
striped candy suckers large as moons,
the off-key band leading brassy soldiers
trumpeting pigeons into the air,
mariachi singers flashing midnight smiles,
stirring up sobs in blue-haired tourists.

Vida! Vida! Vida! Vida!

Vida! He sang, and all the little hearts
of wild things pumped and sprang to life.

Vida! he sings,
while the balloon man floats by grasping
a blossom of balloons, his toes
just skimming the cobblestones.

Carolyn Evans Campbell