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And then here's the prose
poem from Tiburtina.

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It's called "Oppression
and Milk, Anti-Climax."

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I refuse to believe in poison

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Since the Spanish conquest,

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My nation has been
laughing maniacally

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through a gaping wound

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It's almost always night

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So no one can see the bleeding

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Oh, my brother's
scratchers of your own ribs

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Like skinny winged
piglets that grow restless

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Because the daisy dealer is late

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Oh, tiny fringe of a humanity
long-termed fractious

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Which I nevertheless saw coming
like a mountain of water,

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alive and dead at every instant

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All powerful and yet so weak

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Remarkably tough,
while also porous

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Only the fact of my belonging
unified your two-faced soul.

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Oh, beloved monsters

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Lighthouses of the
most manic firmament

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Matchstick nail
scratches in the air

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See how there is
suddenly room for you

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Alongside my old and
contemptible piece

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The doddering housekeeper,
who from this day on,

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I feel obliged to
kick to the curb

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Forgive me

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The poisons, they say,
come in many colors

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And can be as green
as a red apple

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This proves their
complete inhumanity

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And alienates us so thoroughly

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That it's better to
fall back on history

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Rather than bleed ourselves
dry on the salt of remedies

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Who among you had a father?

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We know that nothing
remains pure but poetry

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The blind madness of silver
flowers, cylindrical smoke

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The fresh rot of
infinite vantages

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One long ago afternoon,
when my father brought me

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a glass of milk

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And told me I should
convince mama to see reason

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I was examining a photograph
on the cover of Life magazine

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Which back then didn't
come in color or in Spanish

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Of Winston Churchill looking
like our Catholic pope

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And blessing the world with
smokey words of warrior wisdom

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El Salvador is a country where
the basilisks are friendly cave

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dwellers

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Their eyes mostly
closed for our own good

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Meanwhile, our hens are fierce

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The hateful glare of
all the world's hens

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is borne out by their actions

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And their brand of arrogance
erupts into catastrophic crime

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I drink the glass
of milk cross-eyed

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Thinking about a
Humphrey Bogart movie

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Where there is more
than one poisoning

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And everyone in
the audience quakes

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My father could have beaten
Humphrey Bogart in any fight

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One hand tied behind his back,
eyes blindfolded, legs in a sack

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It was the best glass of
milk I've had in my life

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Which must also
be why I love you,

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country of mine, history,
perils, et cetera

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So there's that one.