Poems by Mariano Zaro ​

Don Crispín, The Dentist
 
Don Crispín lives alone in an apartment
near the park.
He rarely goes out for walks.
 
He has a large stamp collection that
he inherited from his grandfather— 
also a dentist.
 
The collection is composed of several albums:
Castles in Central Europe,
Mediterranean Ports, Dog Breeds.
Colombian Birds is the only album he ever opens.
 
He reads the names of the birds out loud:
Scarlet Ibis,     Amazon Kingfisher,
Colombian Chachalaca,     Tolima Blossomcrown,
Golden-headed Quetzal,     Toco Toucan,
and his favorites: Tourmaline Sunangel
and     Violet-tailed hummingbird.
 
He would like to go to Colombia.
 
                                                I’m too old for that.
                                                I have never been abroad.
                                                And then, there is my breathing.
                                                I smoke too much.
                                   
Don Crispín
will end up going to Colombia,
and when he is sleeping
in a quiet hotel room
perhaps in Bogotá,
Barranquilla or Cartagena,
with the windows open,
a hummingbird—iridescent,
smaller than a fava bean--
will enter the room
and will nest on his left ear,
not in the ear canal,
but the soft folds
of the auricle,
and Don Crispín
won’t move
for twenty-one days--
the whole incubation period--
because he doesn’t
want to disturb the
mother hummingbird,
because he finally has found
his place in the world.
 
                                   
 
 
 
Marcela, La Panadera
 
Not the clothing.
The flesh itself.
 
No cinnamon, no hazelnut,
no sugar, no rosemary, no butter.
Just warm bread.
 
Marcela, la panadera.
Marcela, the baker,
smells like bread.
 
She works all night
kneading the dough,
forming each loaf,
heating the oven,
making sure the bread
is crispy on the outside— 
but not too rough— 
and soft on the inside.
 
She goes home at daybreak.
 
When a baby is sick, has fever,
cries for no reason,
they call her
and Marcela doesn’t go home,
she visits the sick child
and she sleeps
next to the crib.
Let me bring you an ottoman
so you can rest your legs, someone says.
 
When Marcela closes her eyes
the whole room—crib, blankets,
pillows, night tables, even the mirrors,
the whole house
smells like bread
and the fever goes down,
babies stop crying,
they fall asleep.
The parents draw the curtains
so the sunlight doesn’t bother Marcela,
and they stay in the room,
standing, because there is nothing else to do
except to listen
to the baby and Marcela
breathing together. 
 
 

Mariano Zaro is the author of seven books of poetry, most recently The Weight of Sound (Walton Well Press), Decoding Sparrows (What Books Press) and Padre Tierra (Olifante, Zaragoza, Spain). His translations include Buda en llamas by Tony Barnstone and Cómo escribir una canción de amor by Sholeh Wolpé. His poems have been published in the anthologies Monster Verse (Penguin Random House), Poetry Goes to the Movies (Pacific Coast Poetry Series/Beyond Baroque Books), The Coiled Serpent (Tía Chucha Press), and in several magazines in Mexico, Spain and the United States.

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