Buenos Aires In and Out
In
Out
Just outside the gates
Recoleta,
of Recoleta Cemetery,
bed of repose for few,
a city unto itself,
whose gates keep out the living,
vendors, respectful of
the poor, the classless, the políticos
their neighbor, quietly
out of favor and the rats.
display their soldiers, dolls,
Cats are courted, honored, spoiled;
wagons and ceramic vases
they have a job to do.
leaning against glass-blown panes.
Violet blues, vibrant greens,
One must be rich to lie inside
blood-red streaks in banners,
or noble and esteemed,
yarns, patchwork quilts,
like Evita, or royalty; pobre
and mahogany crafts
Juan didn’t make it in.
speak louder than their words.
This city of dead has thoroughfares
and alleys and castle-like monuments.
Hundreds funnel onto this
Yet they stand vacant,
winding path, make their
neatly tended
leisurely way on a Sunday afternoon.
to keep memories alive.
Fizzy fruit-filled sodas in Porteño style
Beggars without history
offered at each stop until I give in
live on streets outside the gates.
and order a pink one,
pineapple and unknown berry,
Snake-like throngs pass
and understand what
Evita’s tomb to pile flowers,
I’ve been missing.
wipe a tear.
A meter away
I see an instrument new to me,
a rusted wrought-iron
perhaps for my granddaughter.
grating holds a wilted,
Metal prongs on wooden base
once pink flower
play scales when fingers pluck.
in its lock.
Elephants, in wood no less,
.
with hues from dark
to light in every size.
What welcome bustle,
energy, noise, movement, sound,
all helping me to cope with
the stone-cold silence of Recoleta.
Continue reading
Also by Evie Groch
- Change of Seasons1 MIN
Other voices · In conversation
- back1 MIN