You might as well have a few more poems by Candia, now
that I am getting out all my old compositions. Here’s one on
His enigmas of dark bodegas where
every week is Semana Santa and
humble figures poach eggs, serve their fellows;
wait for a sharp sunbeam epiphany;
show more intensity than a brazen gleam
from mortars, or a water droplet’s sheen.
Dim Seville interiors, shaft-denied,
divulge a dignified resignation
to the present; trust that significance
may dawn. Unspoken communication
resonates with diverse shared agendas.
Glaucous fish eyes uncomprehendingly
stare in Martha’s kitchen, but through the hatch
is glimpsed the divine. That young mulatto
girl, washing up, is suddenly aware
of a moment of grace in her tavern:
an Emmaus experience. The boy
who so anxiously clutches a trussed melon
quadranted by a knotted, twisted cord
seems to sense he cradles a wounded world,
whose riches are bound up and can’t be shared –
As he receives cool water, a man’s face,
mystery-shrouded, looks on silently.
Is he the fourth man, the one from the den?
Is he aware that the same boy’s destiny
will be to attend the Adoration
and possibly witness the death of God?
In the event of a resurrection
will someone dare to open the shutters
and let the sun tear through the curtained shroud?