Israel Centeno

I

White love, dissolve me,
for I am nothing,
into all that the Lord wills—
host, sacred body
of this winter.

Love that melts
in the radiance,
upon the snow.

White love, you erase all traces,
cleanse me of every shadow,
wash my sins
with the light of His promise.

White love, melting
in the winter’s radiance,
upon the snow—this life of mine—
take me with you.

And when the sun awakens the ice,
let me ascend
to His love.

II

I exalted myself and thought,
at last, I had mastered my flight.
I spread my wings:
they are not of wax, I told myself,
and circled above the heads of many.

Despite my plans,
my wings stretched wide,
I fell—
etched my failure,
not even in a spiral.
Nothing elegant,
just the dream of a lizard,
inflamed by the flight of an eagle,
a falcon, a vulture.

The earth is strewn with fossils:
where are the fossils of feathered dinosaurs?
Where are the fossils of those
who devoured their young?
Human fossils buried beneath
diluvial clay.

I no longer fly,
nor exalt myself.
I am unburdened.

On your crossbeam, let me rest beside you.
In your suffering,
let me carry your cross.
It will be my final act—
a last, exalted lack of humility.