Juan Francisco Pulido,
A song not yet sung-
The refrain upon our lips,
But the news took our breath away.
Now the choir’s left the loft
And we sit in silence.
Until we can sit no more.
As if a song could change your mind
We sing your praise:
Juanqui, who was tortured in Cuba for speaking freely,
Juanqui, who learned English in a month with an Italian accent,
Juanqui, who wrote poems to cute girls in the cafeteria,
Juanqui, who loved to dance,
Juanqui, with your sly grin and devilish nod,
Why?
When I learned the news I didn’t understand.
Then I wondered if I would cry,
Then I bawled…
You once said to me
That you cannot read poetry
And you cannot write poetry
Unless you live poetry.
You left a verse scrolled upon my heart-
Upon each of us.
We sit and recount your words-
The time you taught Lukas to Salsa dance,
The stories you wrote about gay vampires,
But so many words left unsaid,
And I can no longer tell you…
Now you live in the eternity of that moment.
When Maggie said,
“Something has happened to Juan”.
I knew then-
I knew, but could do nothing,
Or knew but did not enough…
What can we do now, Juan.
Except extend and arm and embrace the one beside us.
Try and see the people around us,
Peer inside them,
Touch their pain,
Learn their names,
Look deep for Juan’s words-
Live the poetry he has left.
Te echaremos de menos.