Martin Espada

Manuel Is Quiet Sometimes

He was quiet again,
driving east on 113,
near the slaughterhouse
on the day after Christmas
not mourning,
but almost bowed,
like it is after the funeral
of a distant relative,
thoughtful,
sorrow on the border at dusk.

Vietnam was a secret.
Some men there collected ears,
some gold teeth.
Manuel collected the moist silences
between bursts of mortar.
He would not tell
what creatures laughed in his sleep,
or what blood was still drying
from bright to dark
in moments of boredom
and waiting.
A few people knew
about a wound in his leg
(though he refused
to limp);
I knew about the time
he went AWOL.

Driving east on 113,
he talked
about how he keeps
the car running
in winter. It's
a good car,
he said.

There was a brief illumination
of passing headlights,
and slaughterhouse smoke
halted in the sky.

Another night,
the night of the Chicano dance,
Manuel's head swung slow and lazy
with drinking.
He smiled repeatedly,
a polite amnesiac,
and drank other people's beer,
waiting for the dancers
to leave their tables
so he could seal the residue
in plastic cups.
It was almost 2 AM
when he toppled,
aimless as something beheaded,
collapsing so he huddled
a prisoner on the floor.

The shell of his body
swung elbows
when we pulled him up.
He saw me first,
Seeing a stranger.
His eyes were the color
of etherized dreams,
eyes that could
castrate the enemy,
easy murder watching me
with no reflection.

This is what he said:
"I never lied
to you man."