April 6, 1997
The night of Allen Ginsberg’s death I dream
he comes to visit me, tearful because
one of the best poets of our times has died.
I embrace him, patting his heaving back
as if I were burping a big baby,
telling him how sorry I am, asking
if he’ll recite some lines by the deceased.
“I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by madness—” He breaks down sobbing.
Allen, I say, that’s yourself you’re quoting!
“It’s all the same,” he says, and takes me up
on my invitation to spend the night.
He makes mi casa, su casa, all right!
blaring his old LPs, dropping acid
and dirty clothes wherever he takes them off.
Upstairs, I trip on a purple parasol,
which I assume is his. Meanwhile, downstairs
my island familia pulls out all the stops,
cooking sancocho, pastelitos, flan
for el muchacho who needs his strength to grieve.
Vexed by the relatives and added mess,
I stay upstairs, reading the day’s headlines:
“Allen Ginsberg Dies”! It’s up to me
to go tell him. Howling laughter drifts up
as he regales my tías with upbeat
tales of his naughtiness. I brace myself,
descend the stairs with newspaper in hand,
and slip behind his chair, tongue-tied, weeping.
Allen looks up, bewildered. “Jesus Christ!
It’s raining in here! Where’s my umbrella?”