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Birdly by Juan
Mobili
Compared
to a microbe the sparrow on the ledge is bigger than a dragon, yet it
is not what they can see that
the villagers fear, their chests beating faster than starlings. Even gratitude
moves quietly, afraid
to catch the attention of a falcon scanning the landscape for a
snack. These days
our ears seek familiar sounds, the mailman’s truck stopping at
our driveway, the
rustling of our mail finding its nest. When the invisible is done taking
what it will take, I
wish to breathe the way a cardinal does when the squirrels are done
marauding every bird feeder.
El Río de la Plata by Juan Mobili The river never asked for them, busy like a mother who stares at the school bus driving her children to another uncertain day, but it conceded to welcome their bodies cast from airplanes dictatorships disposing from incriminating evidence, a body of water cajoled to be an accomplice, accepting to be a cradle, a resting place it never wished to
be, a river forced to care for my
friend’s bones.
A
Greek Family by Juan Mobili My God! My son lives a life that
puts the Odyssey to shame, and
I am tied to a mast, bound for
home, to my wife, who goes on weaving
and unweaving to hold suitors at
bay, hoping I am still the king she
married before Troy became such a long
gig, and family took a mythic toll.
At the Birds’
Bar By Juan
Mobili It is mostly old timers in the afternoon, no one sings, but a robin always slips a quarter in the jukebox and plays “Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra. A hummingbird
decides he wants to buy me a drink, Bartender,
two double nectars on the rocks, please. His feathers seem heavy on his
tiny spine, almost ready to retire, but unsure when
the breeze will hint that it is over, unpreoccupied whether the flowers will
remember how much he cherished them,
or not.
Dreaming a Little by Juan Mobili I know I dream but
wake up often, what was vivid comes apart like
dandelions clocks, the voices begin to
blur their words, then, the faces burn away like old films
at the movie house when we were kids and
spend our Saturdays, until we were
expelled for launching cheap chocolate
at the screen that melted like tears
on Dracula’s pale cheeks.
Rudy by Juan Mobili Rudy traded in his big ass Cadillac every year, the Christmas we met it was a
cocoa-brown Eldorado. Rudy
was Rodolfo in Argentina, but that was way back, when he was a kid living with his
father in a pensión in Buenos Aires, in a room so small they had to push two lousy
cots out of the way to open the door. By now, Rudy had a beautiful house
in a fancy town in Long Island, a lawn more manicured than Lana Turner’s, and a state-of-the-art
grill where he cooked his favorite chorizos. Every time he parked his Cadillac in his driveway, he made sure he locked it. When poverty sunk its teeth in you, it does not let go.
Watching Argentinian
Thrillers by Juan Mobili
The heroes are always smoking
and the heroines,
often, recite their monologues in their
skimpy underwear. The villains can be,
as predictable, as life has never been. —the
separation of good
and evil as unimpeachable
as immaculately distinct, as you hope God, family
and country could be.
In the final scene,
the good guy’s gunned
down before squeezing
a single shot.
He bleeds away,
next to the rare fox the bad guy intended
to sell off in the black market. In the end, nihilism trumps heroics.
What a film!
Juan Pablo Mobili was born
in Buenos Aires and adopted by New York. His poems appeared in The American Journal
of Poetry, The Worcester Review, Impspired (UK), The Wild Word (Germany), and Otoliths (Australia),
among others. His work received an Honorable Mention from the
International Human Rights Art Festival, and multiple nominations for the
Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. His chapbook, Contraband,
was published this year.
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