Pupusas Fall From the Sky

POEM FOR THE YOUNG PROPHET-WORKERS

FROM HÁBITAT PARA LA HUMANIDAD EL SALVADOR

WORKING FOR THE SOULS OF GRINGOS,

TRYING TO SAVE THEM IN SIX DAYS

—for Sofia, Bris, Magdalena, Francis, Kathy,

Karla, Luis, and Evelyn

That’s not a poem, Sofia says,

when I read the haiku written

in my notebook. That’s not a poem,

she says again. Let me try it

another way, then. But I need

another day. I have just been fed

yucca frita, pan con gallina, platano

tamal de chipilin, frijoles, and

two kinds of pupusas, one made

from masa de maíz, and one made

from masa de arroz, washed down

with fresco de ensalada and horchata.

I’m full. Too full too write a poem.

You can’t write a poem when you’re full.

In order to write a poem, you need

to be in love, and you need to be empty.

Poems are always about love,

don’t you know? You need to be away

from your beloved, too. She needs

to be far away. If she’s too close,

or he’s too close, you’ll think

about other things. God says,

Mana for all, and all food is God’s.

God is good, but these Hábitat

workers filled me with too much God,

making it hard to write this poem.

All I can think about is chispa.

I’m dreaming chispa with a full

stomach. Poems are for dreamers,

too. Dreamers and lovers. And fools.

Don’t forget the fool. If you’re a real poet

you might write about all three. And

you must think about the beloved at all times,

full or empty. You need inspiration

to write, but like I said, all I can

think about is chispa. Chispa

is the cement holding the house

together. When I try to think

about love, all I can hear

is the voice crying, “Chispa—

more chispa.” Where is my faith?

Lovers are faithful—how can I be

faithful when all I think about

is chispa? I worry that chispa

dries up my heart, turning it

to cement. I fill my wheelbarrow—

mi carreta—with dried up chunks

of cement, and say to myself,

I’m going to start this poem over.

I will write inspired. I will tell

the honest truth of love. I’m wheeling

my wheel barrow as  I talk to myself,

poets are always talking to themselves—

I’m going to dump the rocks

and all my worn out words into the ravine.

Poets are always revising—when

you’re really in love, don’t you always

go head over heels for the beloved?

Aren’t you dizzy? I’m sweating so hard

and I’m dizzy, and I can’t see from the sweat,

and when the rocks and words tumble

from the careta, the wheelbarrow

goes with them all the way to the bottom

of the ravine. It’s gone. Just like my poem.

I’m empty now, I’ll tell you that.

And the Hábitat workers will think

I’m just another lost sheep, a sad-faced lover.

“If he can’t handle the wheel barrow,

see if he can do something easier.

Find him a rake. Find something for him to do.

He may call for more chispa,

but don’t tell me he loves it.”

I imagine those workers thinking like that.

The young men give me their skin

giving me their gloves, going without.

The women carry shovels like they’re machetes.

I’ve thrown away my poem ten times

and lost my barrow. I’m empty,

away from home, wondering if chispa

binding the lovers and the workers,

binds us all. Hábitat workder

make me feel like we’re all one family.

Building a house for others

I—we—feel only love. Hábitat

workers teach us about love. ¿Que es eso?

Maybe I’m trying too hard to find

my way in a poem. Maybe I should try

building a house. Tamp it down,

tamp it down. Maybe what I’m feeling

is just love. Chispa and wheelbarrows

isn’t what this poem is about at all.

What this poem is about is love—

love breaks up the hard heart.

No more dried-up cement surrounding me.

Pupusas fall from the sky. A finished house

is always a real poem.

Jim Bodeen

16 January 2015—21 January 2015

Santa Ana, El Salvador—Yakima, Washington