Lights in Mexico by George Moore

Light in Mexico

George Moore

                        in memoriam Tony Ostroff

The light you wrote of at war’s edge

that light fused to rose adobe

not of the jungles where so many bled
not of the barricades that stood against

whatever would disturb that light
whatever would yank us out of our desks

that glow of sunset dust on an old street
where two children ran and a tourist woman

tries to capture in her paints their fleeing
while the light was just right just rose

and it was not a place for death but light
and yet both were passing

We can almost return to it
but you are dead and the slender volume

now snug between a thousand friends
cries out on this northern shelf

occupies more than the lines say
a space in time that recuperates

the value of the time itself
as if cupped in these hands

But it is the silence that I remember
the sudden silence when gunfire ceases

the others their terror in the jungles
the dusty streets across which I ran

before the paint dries and we
are pressed between the pages

About the Author

George Moore’s collections include Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016). His poetry has been published in The Atlantic, Poetry, Valparaiso, Stand, Orbis, and the Colorado Review. He lives with his wife, a Canadian poet, on the south shore of Nova Scotia.