Román Leão

Category: Stories and Poems

  • Rocket Science [poema]

    We are not standing still
    We sail the slender edge of a sphere
    Spinning through space
    At a thousand miles an hour

    What if when we die our spirits are merely flung
    Like a stone into the sky?

    Like feathers from a hawk ascending
    Like fireworks marking an epoch ending
    Like rockets, their trajectory bending

    Ultimately back to ground

    Photo/Ray Larsen

  • The River [poema]

    The shattered granite banks of the Klamath
    have been rounded by time—more time
    than I can imagine, though I try—and water.
    If the steelhead would show and were
    in a talkative mood, they would tell me
    something about patience, although perhaps
    through their absence, they are still trying to teach.

    This, I have down. I could stand in this cold
    current all day, all year, forever; what
    else could be this perfect? As an eagle
    flies overhead and a pair of black bears
    roam the far shore; all I am missing are things
    that don’t matter, and you. Where are you?
    How could days be so sublime and disconsolate?

    I still have a lot to learn from this river.
    The sharp edges of where whole escarpments
    have sheared off from my heart have yet to be
    smoothed over. Landslides neither foreseen
    or witnessed, but devastating in their force, await
    the healing touch of water. Meanwhile, distant stars
    are my cold companions.

    Photo/Ray Larsen

  • Tears Are Saltwater [poema]

    The bridge is at a standstill

    Protestors cast their keys before them
       Over the steel railing
          Into the bystander Bay
             To be swallowed by sturgeon
                And checked over by crabs

    Imagine that chirping in the background
       The unexpected result
          Of deep-water exoskeletal investigations

    Halfway across the world atrocities continue unabated

    As Dungeness poke at newfound fobs
       As headlights flash on and off unconsidered
          And batteries slowly die
             Their future corroding away
                By the minute

    We wait, hoping for the slack tide to return

  • Spirit (for Etel Adnan) [poema]

    Spirit is a river
    rolling relentless
    through the night,
    through the dark.

    Sometimes (like the Rouge,
    like the Buffalo,
    like the Schuylkill,
    like the Cuyahoga),
    the river catches
    fire.

  • Ameixeira (Plum Tree) [poema]

    Up on a high branch, ebony crows are at it;
    Fighting amongst themselves over the plump, ripe fruits
    That float in their bright green firmament, flashing
    Like Palerindas falling from a piñata at the park.

    Can’t those birds see there is more than enough for all?
    Such a wasted abundance that broken orbs squish
    Up between my toes in the cool mornings as I
    Move to water the strawberries and tomatoes.

    As a murder alights in the sycamore shade,
    I tire of the squall and squabble from above.
    Plucking a ripe bullet from its stem, I marvel
    At iridescent reds and purples.

    I’ve chosen my weapon to fit its flawless form.
    In the afternoon heat, the leather pocket smells
    Of sacred summers, of baseball mitts, and sandals,
    And even of old bears passing down on Castro Street.

    The yellow surgical tubing pulls tight and sings,
    Its potential energy not to be tied off.
    Today my cause is righteous and with careful aim
    And consideration for the wind, I let fly.

    Bang! The neighbors’ car windshield takes the hit. No harm,
    No foul; no one coming out, thank God. The corvos
    Grasp the sky in a black panic to continue
    Their argument elsewhere. All is right. All is plum.

    Published in California Quarterly, Vol. 35, No. 4

  • Suggestion Box [poema]

    Everyday upon entering the coliseum, I see it
    Well crafted from exotic hardwoods
    Stolen, I’m sure, from some forest primeval
    Hand-polished brass hardware makes certain
    All submissions remain confidential
    Goddamn thing probably cost more than I make in a week

    Passing by, I project poison through the smooth slot
    A gill of gall in your hogshead of cream
    The unspoken knowledge that if I told you what I really thought
    The linoleum floor would rend beneath your feet
    You would become helplessly entangled
    In basement chain and sour mop heads
    Things you know nothing about

    My first suggestion would be to get rid of that box

    Published in Poiesis #5, and winner of the second place Luminaire Award for Best Poetry in The Coil Magazine

  • Rapid Transit [poema]

    The black cars are already on their way
    I can hear tires screeching in the distance
    Staying tight in the corners and dead sticking the gears

    This one is driven by your friend’s mom
    High on gin and tonics, the way she looked back in the day
    When she still had a sense of humor and a great ass

    That one is driven by your first girlfriend’s father
    Looking like he’d just as soon kill you as breathe
    I would not climb in if I were you

    There’s one driven by cancer, that son-of-a-bitch
    The interior filled with nicotine as a bony finger points
    At the No Smoking sign with a tight fucking smile

    Do me a favor and call the dispatcher back
    Cancel my ride if it’s not too late
    I think I would rather walk the miles that I have left

    Photo/Ray Larsen

  • Trust [ficção]

    The lounge was a mine disaster: dark, no air, bad smells. Beer taps floated formless behind the bar. Some startled when a voice emerged to take their order.

    Not Thom.

    A regular, he knew what he wanted, and where it would be placed. He had his cash arranged into bundles of drink plus tip, understanding how important the bartender’s happiness was. He could pour anything. It was only mutual respect that kept Thom from lifting a glass of gall.


    (Written for Esquire’s 79-word challenge. Harder than I thought; I felt like Gordon Lish.)

  • All the Way to the Bank, Laughing [poema]

    She gets a text while sitting across from me
    Her device buzzes like a doorbell and demands
    “Ask him if he’s hungry enough to be a poet”
    Am I willing to commit to the last, best hope?
    That’s what we are going to address…

    While self-anointed apostles, solemn and monkish
    Are spiritually saturated with triviality?
    Is it not obvious by now that in secret moments
    They are dreaming of ravishing magnificent pumpkins?
    We can discuss whether or not I’ve got the juice…

    But to our right, there is a phalanx of bleach-haired women
    Scheming behind a six-foot wall of shrill dissonance
    Their deadened eyes reflect the same old news
    While on the live stream, a fire creeps across the horizon
    Why not ask if I’m hungry enough…

    To boil an oil oligarch while achieving viral visibility?
    Or to cook the books to mine own liking—still pink in the middle
    Without this rapacity, I would be busy dancing
    And following the scent of burning money
    All the way to the bank, laughing

    Photo/Ray Larsen

  • Angels of Gravity [poema]

    Above the quilted patchwork
    We fall upon the Earth
    Like sunshine—arching, laughing
    Breathing in the quick air and becoming
    (Screaming from the top of life)
    Angels borne on wings
    Of true gravity

    Under the endless blue
    Canopy of morning—adrenalized
    Yet dozing in the brief luxury of being
    Too alive to worry of things such as dying

         It is for the heavy

            Who never learn

               To fly