The Martin Espada Poems: Beyond the Façade

Subject and Section
Professor’s name
Date
The Martin Espada Poems: Beyond the Façade
Martin Espada's poetry constitutes a compelling exploration of various facets of societal and human experiences. In "He Could Sing, but He Couldn't Fly," Espada examines the trials faced by immigrants, particularly in the context of legal documentation. "How We Could Have Lived or Died This Way" is an unflinching commentary on systemic violence and injustice, while "Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper" delves into the intricate relationship between physical labor and the symbolism of perfection within the legal profession. Through his evocative and thought-provoking verses, Espada provides readers with a lens through which to engage with issues of social inequality, identity, and resilience within contemporary society.
The first poem discussed is Espada's, "How We Could Have Lived or Died This Way.”
Not songs of loyalty alone are these,
But songs of insurrection also,
For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over.
—Walt Whitman
I see the dark-skinned bodies falling in the street as their ancestors fell
before the whip and steel, the last blood pooling, the last breath spitting.
I see the immigrant street vendor flashing his wallet to the cops,
shot so many times there are bullet holes in the soles of his feet.
I see the deaf woodcarver and his pocketknife, crossing the street
in front of a cop who yells, then fires. I see the drug raid, the wrong
door kicked in, the minister's heart seizing up. I see the man hawking
a fistful of cigarettes, the cop’s chokehold that makes his wheezing
lungs stop wheezing forever. I am in the crowd, at the window,
kneeling beside the body left on the asphalt for hours, covered in a sheet.
I see the suicides: the conga player handcuffed for drumming on the subway,
hanged in the jail cell with his hands cuffed behind him; the suspect leaking
blood from his chest in the backseat of the squad card; the 300-pound boy
said to stampede bare-handed into the bullets drilling his forehead.
I see the coroner nodding, the words he types in his report burrowing
into the skin like more bullets. I see the government investigations stacking,