I will wait, said wood, and it did.
Ten years, a hundred, a thousand, a million—
It did not matter. Time was not its measure,
Not its keeper, nor its master.
Wood was trees in those first days.
And when wood sang, it was leaves,
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On the Mexico side in the 1950s and 60s, There were movie houses everywhere And for the longest time people could smoke As they pleased in the comfort of the theaters. The smoke rose and the movie told itself On the screen and in the air both, The projection caught a little In the wavering mist of the cigarettes. In this way, every story was two stories And every character lived near its ghost. Looking up we knew what would happen next Before it did, as if it the movie were dreaming Itself, and we were part of it, part of the plot Itself, and not just the audience. And in that dream the actors’ faces bent A little, hard to make out exactly in the smoke, So that María Félix and Pedro Armendáriz Looked a little like my aunt and one of my uncles— And so they were, and so were we all in the movies, Which is how I remember it: Popcorn in hand, Smoke in the air, gum on the floor— Those Saturday nights, we ourselves Were the story and the stuff and the stars. We ourselves were alive in the dance of the dream.
Born in 1952, Alberto Ríos is the inaugural state poet laureate of Arizona and the author of many poetry collections, including A Small Story about the Sky (Copper Canyon Press, 2015). In 1981, he received the Walt Whitman Award for his collection Whispering to Fool the Wind (Sheep Meadow Press, 1982). He currently serves as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.