I am so honored to present Ariel Francisco’s work. His poetry has remarkable observations. I love how his poems present scenarios, where the reader is able to see the welcome and constant presence of nature in partnership with the intricacies of human experience.   
—Gina Ferrara 

ROSELAND, LA 

A chaos of speckled grackles 

feed from the fig tree 

leaning over the fence 

from the neighbors yard 

like an exhausted old man. 

* 

An explosion in Roseland, 

fireball climbing the sky 

with promethean ambition, 

the neon flame unnatural, 

black smoke billowing 

carrying its chemicals 

as far as it can. 

* 

The grackles frenzy, 

shaking the tree to its roots 

tearing the figs apart 

as if they’ll never eat again. 

* 

Miles away, black ash and oil rain  

down like feathered remains. 

THREE MORNING IMAGES IN THE FRENCH QUARTER 

I  

The lunatic joggers already out 

keeping pace with the dawn. 

II 

A drunk tourist passed out 

sprawled across the sidewalk 

body outlined with neon green 

hand grenades like vigil candles. 

III 

A crow measures the winter sky 

against the black of its wing 

waiting for the thin blue line 

of the horizon 

to be shattered by morning. 

ICE SKATING IN NEW ORLEANS 

At the Spotted Cat 

to escape the summer heat 

drinking whatever rum my buddy  

Chris behind the bar recommends, 

the chaos of Frenchmen Street 

harmonizing with the jazz band 

jammed into the corner up front, 

the afternoons soundtrack full 

of brass horns and human voices, 

when one of those voices attached 

to a man with a mane of white hair 

slouching next to me at the end of the bar 

starts unpacking his life story to me 

unprompted the way men in that age bracket 

in this kind of establishment tend to do, 

how he ran away from home in Massachusetts 

at thirteen because he hated the cold 

and hated his mom or step-mom or some woman  

in his life, hitchhiking to California to live 

that hippie lifestyle or just live in general 

under a brighter sun, getting as far away 

as possible from his frigid former life, 

then bouncing around the country, 

off to the midwest, the plains, the deserts, 

until years scattered him in New Orleans 

and he fell in love with the music 

that’s always in the air here 

like it’s part of the landscape, somehow 

finessing his way into the jazz clubs, 

claiming to have had a hand 

in building all the known spots, 

you’d think he was there, hammer in hand, 

nails between his teeth, building 

the stages himself, sweating over his work 

the way everyone outside is sweating right now 

as he points out the window 

to all his contributions on Frenchmen Street, 

puts a hand on my shoulder like he’s known me 

his whole life, repeats 

how much he loves New Orleans, 

the music, the people, the mess, 

says one year it got so cold 

after some rain the street froze solid 

and the rain transformed into snow, 

and instead of dancing and sweating 

people started ice skating down the streets, 

said it reminded him of home 

before running away, some bright 

memory in the cold despite his disdain for it, 

and it doesn’t matter if he’s lying: 

I can see the snow falling in his eyes. 

Ariel Francisco is the author of four poetry collections, most recently All the Places We Love Have Been Left in Ruins (Burrow Press, 2024), and the translator of various poetry collections from Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, and Haiti. His work has been published in The New Yorker, American Poetry Review, Academy of American Poets, POETRY Magazine, the New York City Ballet, and elsewhere. He teaches in the MFA program at Louisiana State University.