Paraíso

Poems by

Jacob Shores-Argüello

• Publisher: University of Arkansas Press
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN: 9781682260432
• eBook ISBN: 9781610756204
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Poesia americana

Winner, 2017 CantoMundo Poetry Prize

Paraíso, the first book in the new CantoMundo Poetry Series, which celebrates the work of Latino/a poets writing in English, is a pilgrimage against sorrow. Erupting from a mother's death, the poems follow the speaker as he tries to survive his grief. Catholicism, family, good rum . . . these help, but the real medicine happens when the speaker pushes into the cloud forest alone.

In a Costa Rica far away from touristy beaches, we encounter bus trips over the cold mountains of the dead, drug dealers with beautiful dogs, and witches with cell phones. Science fuses with religion, witchcraft is joined with technology, and eventually grief transforms into belief.

Throughout, Paraíso defies categorization, mixing its beautiful sonnets with playful games and magic cures for the reader. In the process, moments of pure life mingle with the aftermath of a death.

III

FUNERAL RITES

Elegy for My Mother

As a child I vandalized my grandfather

with questions, asked about the long whips

left by river snakes in the mud,

the sudden bones of birds on the jungle floor.

I cared so much about what was left behind.

Now, we are selling her last calf

because we can no longer take care of both

her animals and her land.

My grandfather smiled at the funeral,

joked that the little plot next to hers

would surely be his. Now he is serious.

We are walking the green of my mother’s farm,

and he shows me again how to carry

the calf on my shoulders,

so I don’t disturb her,

so I don’t cause her pain.

Fire Song

The wildfire happens

quickly. Direwinds

huff their enormous lungs.

The vaqueros watch

as the grasses blush

with flame,

and the throngs

of Brahmans stampede.

Yellowbriar, devil’s ear,

jaragua grass–

all belong solely

to this fire.

Without trees,

there is entirely too much sky.

Low low, says the tapir

as it runs from heat. Ruin,

warns a swoop

of hummingbirds.

The hot-breathed wind hisses

Who Who

as it spits and spins.

I look out over the fire line

and repeat my mother’s name.

Many songs of devotion. Many songs

of devotion

undone.

Medicine

My uncle could not find the witch

but the witch’s sister gave him a mash

of sweet herbs for me to drink.

I drank, but did not remember

that I drank. I drank again,

and each time I lost another day.

Until all I could remember

was walking with my mother

in the wild green of Santa Clara,

rope sawing into my shoulder,

a plastic jug of water tied at the end.

We plucked purple sage that day,

smoked ourselves, prayed. Prepared

our bodies for all that would come.

Ghost Story

As a boy I pleaded

with the river to teach me

its long and winding vowels.

In exchange I taught it

swear words, how to play games.

The night I stayed by its side

for hours, eight parrots

came to listen to us speak.

It was a long time before

the river asked in a low voice

if the children of the pueblo

had finally forgotten La Llorona—

the woman who drowned

her children in its deep waters.

Yes, I said. Forgotten.

It’s hard to lie to a river,

harder to lie to a river you love.

Make Believe

As children, my cousin and I once

dug into the side of our mountain,

a terrible brown work.

That morning we’d made the cold walk

to the hospital and watched

his mother for a long time.

She was unchained from her machines,

shrinking into ordinary.

It was our first death,

and we looked at our small hands.

But no, my cousin insisted,

these are not our hands,

they are bear hands.

And we walked to our mountain,

shaped our cave:

one meter, two meters, three.

We bears were making a home.

We roared, and shook off our human bones,

until angels howled like dogs

in the valley below.

Paloma

Primo, our childhood was river weeds

twisted into crucifixes,

El Chavo del Ocho on our old TV,

and grandmother’s parrot asking for coffee.

Primo, why is it so hard to talk to anyone

whose mother hasn’t died?

Come to my house tomorrow

and we’ll drink beer poisoned by lime,

we’ll lure a moth with our flashlights

and not be ashamed to see de...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Series Editors’ Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Contents
• I. Games
• II. Congregation
• III. Funeral Rites
• IV. Magical-Rationalism