Two Poems by Diego Quintero

Yankees

The fall of a sound
a shirt wrapped in sweat,
the mouth the tooth
both conjugated with spasm in flesh
                                Sing my love, please sing
the flesh made for each other
inside each other.

And Mom?
And the house?

She didn’t know of singular professions;

the subtle act of bullfighting
or playing out an opera
in tiny place;
necessarily theatrical.

He finishes
what he needs to finish
and I see him get dressed calmly
in front of the mirror.

Somebody whistles
down the aisle that unites
the apartments.

I never knew how small death was,
how significant

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