the louderARTS Project

Rigoberto González

Rigoberto González is the author of three books, So Often the Pitcher Goes to Water Until It Breaks, a 1998 National Poetry Series selection (University of Illinois Press, 1999); Soledad Sigh-Sighs / Soledad Suspiros (Children’s Book Press, 2003), a bilingual children’s book; and a novel, Crossing Vines (University of Oklahoma Press, 2003), which received ForeWord Magazine's Editor's Choice for Fiction Book of the Year Award in 2004.

Four new books are forthcoming in 2005: Northwestern University Press will publish his biography of the late Chicano writer, Tomás Rivera; Zoo Press will publish his second collection of poetry, Other Fugitives and Other Strangers; his memoir, Butterfly Boy, will appear from the University of Wisconsin Press; and Children’s Book Press will bring out his second bilingual children’s book, Antonio’s Card / La tarjeta de Antonio.

González is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and of various international artists’ residencies, including stays at Fundación Valparaíso in Spain; Fundaçao Sacatar in Brazil; the Ezra Pound House in Sun Valley, Idaho; the David and Julia White Artists’ Colony in Costa Rica; and Hawthornden Castle in Scotland. He is a member of PEN and of the National Book Critics Circle, and he reviews books by Latina/o authors for the El Paso (Texas) Times twice monthly. Since 2004, he has served as the Poetry Editor of Swink, a bi-coastal literary journal.

He currently lives and works in New York City.

Rigoberto70 at aol dot com
rigobertogonzalez.com




The Exhibitionist Umbrella Salesman

The butcher's wife who lived across the street
preserved no details of him. Like us,
she couldn't undo what she had learned:
confuse the ribs and muscles on his belly
with the edges of the window pane;
merge his navel, the chaos of his body hair
with chrysanthemum shadows creeping off the ledge.
If he had ever spoken, she never listened:
to admit he had a voice would grant him
a quickness responding to light, a provocation
that would only inch him forward.
When asked about those mornings
sitting st her Singer, when the curtains opened
on the second floor of Guille's boardinghouse,
but the butcher's wife recalled the houseplants on the ledge
and the rumor of some salesman
who came to town about the time the drought did.
A solicitor, he was meant to be avoided,
rejected, but in discreet and Catholic manner.
We didn't need them, but we purchased his umbrellas,
One bat's-wing at a time. We kept them shut
to deprive him of the space to shake them open.
We kept them shut, thinking he'd leave our town
much sooner, and that just as quickly we'd forget him
naked at the window, dripping from the heat
beneath his black umbrella, or so the whispers,
which was enough. We saw too much of him walking down the street,
teasing us with his umbrella sack,
fingering the cords at the end of the umbrella shaft.
Those who couldn't avoid him
would confront him with his product,
compensating the impoliteness of not looking up to wave
by tilting the umbrella forward, just a bit.
And when the salesman disappeared, we weren't sure
if he was running from the rain, or the rain from him,
or even if they traveled the same direction.
We welcomed the clouds
but never knew if the man at Guille's
and the salesman were indeed the same man,
or if there was ever a man at all.
The butcher's wife only remembered houseplants.
Yet the schoolboys kept alive a joke about some man
and his umbrella, which matured inside the local bar,
still only a joke, and not an image any man admitted
to have seen.
Despite all that we still own umbrellas,
which we never open. Warns the superstition:
never ever use after a drought.



© Rigoberto González



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