Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, and adopted by New York. His poems appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Worcester Review, Thimble Magazine, Otoliths (Australia) Impspired (UK), and Bosphorus Review of Books (Turkey)among others. His work received an Honorable Mention from the International Human Rights Art Festival, and nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net, in 2020 and 2021. His chapbook, “Contraband,” was published this year.
para Enrique to have been poor sinks its teeth in you, like a dog that won’t let go. Years pass, —you are rich!— but the scar will not leave, like a dog that bit and held hard to leg or arm, and chose to stay, no place or wish to go, a mark now, a brand —no pain but the thought of an old pain— and now faint, the scent of shame.
At the End of Daylight Grief
The moonlight pours down itself drowning the quiet with its impatient tenderness. You could almost imagine she is a young girl jumping rope within the heart of a poised mother. I can’t imagine night came to wish us poorly, or reproach us for decisions we would regret tomorrow for regretting. I think the moonlight wants to play with my hair, poke me on the shoulder, nudge me to raise my eyes at every constellation, become undone with awe.
Laying out His Clothes
If my father would have wished a funeral I would have asked to curate his wake. That he chose to be ashes was not surprising, I doubt he ever enjoyed gatherings that much and I never expected a letter with instructions on the aesthetics he was after. Otherwise, he would have favored his Prince of Wales suit, a silk tie and the pocket square showing subtly in his jacket, folded in an ascending line. Personally, I would’ve chosen his suede vest, and a silk cravat around his neck, as he chose to wear on Sundays, although I know he’d look at me wondering how I could fail to see it was too casual. Still, if it was up to me I’d go with the vest, and I would have insisted, in no uncertain terms, on shaving him myself.