By Charles Haddox

Between the subjective and the static,
you opened the door to discourse.
I have never met you,
and only know you
through those radio and television interviews
and through your stanzas.
In you there is something of my father
—and a baby chick
not yet out of its shell—
as if champagne
escaped a sealed bottle.
The carousel voice, the piloncillo smile,
the feral hair, they’re in the poems, too.
You don’t need a friend,
surrounded by the poets of Anahuac,
but I ask for the friendship
of your hieroglyphic words.

About the Author

Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His poetry has appeared in a number of journals including Birdcoat Quarterly, Volume Poetry, and Vita Poetica.

Website: charleshaddox.wordpress.com