Oscar Bermeo

URBAN RELACIÓN When we left Barrio Viejo, we took all the tools and fire, all the statues and wood, all the cups and water, all the dreams and sand, all the liquors and mirth, all the drums and hollow, all the oceans and salt, all the birds and dawn, all the shoes and flight, all the rocks and spark, all the trees and fruit, all the strings and joy, all the statues and legend, all the weapons and pride, all the medicines and magic, all the maps and wander, all the roofs and warmth, all the mules and labor, all the bridges and reach, all the prayers and the way back.           THE STORY OF HOW A PIGEON CAME TO LIVE IN CITY Back in the day, all the Birds could sing.  Not just chirps and whistles, I’m saying the Birds carried the Wind under their wings and in their throats.  They were the original poets bringing story from place to place, making Split Rock—which was the Bird name for dry land—whole again. It went a little something like this: you could go to the desert and have Road Runner come up to you and sing a song of Water, which he learned from meeting up with his man Gull, a song so full of wave crash and salt swell that you forgot about thirst for a good day, at least. This is how we got across Split Rock back when your legs were good for something more than keeping a pant crease straight.  It was all good up until man came up on the set.  Right from the jump, the Word went out with the Wind that Change was coming down.  And remember what I said about how tight Birds were with Wind?  So sure enough, the Birds were the first to act on the Word. Eagle traded in a killer baritone for a chance to be able to eat Rabbit and Squirrel.  That sure enough seemed like a sucker bet so the Council of Creatures said, “Sure, knock your self out.”  When man started to push up on everybody’s spot and make villages every damn where he pleased, Owl was up next and gave up a smooth mesquite crooner and in return wanted to be able to eat up some Spider and Frog.  Another fool’s folly, for sure, and no one made any objection. Now you want to know about Pigeon and how he lives so well in the City.  Well, here’s the kick, no one knows what Pigeon traded in for that.  All we know is it must’ve been something massive because not only can Pigeon eat anything that falls on a City street but Pigeon can also hide its babies from man, which means unlike his homies Eagle and Owl, Pigeon will never die.  All the heads figure that the trade-off must’ve been mad deep. But I say, don’t listen to them rumors and put your own ears to work and notice how Pigeon shares an intimate coo with City.  It’s the only song Pigeon’s ever known. The sweet growl heard when Split Rock first went cracking and that song of rip and mend.  Listen, it still goes on.       - - - - - -

Born in Ecuador and raised in the Bronx, Oscar Bermeo is the author of three self-published poetry chapbooks—Anywhere Avenue, Palimpsest and Heaven Below. He lives in Oakland, CA, with his wife, poeta Barbara Jane Reyes.  For more on Oscar and his poetics, please visit www.oscarbermeo.com.