The red brick Cathedral
loomed in the Center of Paulista,
a square full of a flurry
of men hanging
from the sliding doors
of their white vans, shouting
the places they would take
whoever was willing to pay
the two-real fare:
Maria Farinha, Maranguape II, Maria Farinha!
Janga! Janga!
Abreu, é?
Tabajara! Tabajara!
Vai, irmão?
and sometimes grabbing pedestrians
by the arm and heaving them inside
for a discounted trip to the end of the block.
I preferred to walk
than to be pressed
between two senhoras dressed in denim
skirts and purple shirts with their church’s
logo—the kind who started singing hymns
as soon we got on and until we got off,
invoking the powers of God against
the interloping Mórmons—
in the back of a rattling van
while my companion stood
a row up, holding a bag
for a man who had just barely
managed to get on before we all
took off again.
By sunset, the square had cleared.
The remaining vans idled
beside the cathedral.
The multitudes of shoppers,
commuters, and drivers
had gone, replaced
by men and women
who staggered like wandering trees.
They held little soda bottles
under their noses, green plastic
filled with shoe glue
or pipe glue and whispering
a noxious stink.
On our way home for the night,
I passed too close to one
squatting on the curb,
and, trained by months
of gregarious drunks—
extricating myself from unending handshakes,
nodding through meandering confessions,
dodging the odd, errant kiss—
I regretted it instantly, bracing
for the tacky grasp
around my ankle, ready
to shout or shake him off,
call him to repentance,
invite him to church—
but he never stirred,
never blinked,
as though his mind,
his spirit, had been caught
on the gluey walls
of his reverie
like a once-curious,
now-dying fly.
The moonless black
in the empty streets
leached into my breast.
I was meant to preach light—
light that couldn’t pierce
the viscous haze that had locked
that wounded soul in place.
And I pressed on for home,
wishing that he had reached out—
that he could have reached out—
that I could have had, as a sign
that he still flickered
from within his static form,
a rind of glue to scrub
off the hem of my pants
the next day.
