Xochiquetzal Candelaria

The Loudspeaker of the People’s Army

In the Ogaden desert, they skim it from muddy water,


pour it over cactus meat: ululations crisp as morning birds.





With fossils they tune innards.  With tails write. 


Pause for good light.  Let it pass through remains,


the Loudspeaker warbling in low tones.






In Oaxaca, they carve it of radishes. Contorted


shapes shaved into violins, slung into trees 


cutting a thick, rained foliage sonata


for African bees.  Some measures drizzling


the branches others hidden in the roots,




the pulse endlessly trilling


in the City of Angels, where it


resurfaces by the docks:


fifty varieties of night shade and sweet pearl,


fifty sacks of thistle grown entirely by pitch.




As the what if of the inflamed song


split the surface like a whale’s tail,


Argentines collected sun-bleached


cardboard in the storm of bells, knowing


hours by the heat of another’s body.




When we fix the trains will we hear it en masse,


the solipsistic question: why do they hate us? flaking


to an inarticulate texture,


dusty rafters quaking, until undone, hornlike


piece by piece we enter the Loudspeaker


addressed as stranger?




You are the last stranger,


little organ, little ear


all your lorries loaded with air.



When you feel me kiss you


during the overture of wild goats,


I’m caressing a rhythm.