In our final year of high school, my friends and I
were studying at home for a test on the works
of the national hero, including the very last poem
he wrote before he was marched out of his cell and into
the field where he would be shot by firing squad at sunrise.
Between mouthfuls of chips and swigs of soda, we tried
to recite the poem in stumbling Spanish— Mi Ultimo Adios.
The story is that his sisters found it, soot-covered, in an alcohol
lamp. As we prepared to leave for school, my friends waved
their thanks and goodbye to my mother, busy at her sewing
machine. My Last Farewell, I intoned dramatically,
swinging the door open. My mother's head snapped up
and she shrieked, Don't say that, don't ever say that again,
as if I'd turned into a frightening angel of prophecy.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
