Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Mike Puican
Good Friday
Procession through Peñalolén in Santiago,
Chile, reenacting the Stations of the Cross
Santiago, the pigeons fly through our forgetfulness.
The prayers release us from our intentions; release us
from the body falling to the street, the stain of blood
by the bus stand. Santiago, heart crazy with hope,
unfilled as an empty coffin, your men once stood
with bound hands in the soccer stadium. They knew
who they were. They knew what their future was.
They could say anything.
Today we say the Stations of the Cross: Pigeon,
Stick, Fire, Water, Butcher, Unmoving
chest of the deacon’s wife, Children
hiding under cars waiting for soldiers to leave,
Corpses with ancient chambers still thudding
inside their hearts, Smoke rising from students
splayed across the playing field.
Black smoke gathers inside our mouths. A man
is strapped to a cross and raised above the crowd.
We gather around him. Our prayers are said loud
and open-throated. They are the same prayers
of the rising ghosts. As the procession
moves through the neighborhood, the white lips
on corpses begin to open. Now that heaven’s
been destroyed, we can say anything.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 179