On Philip Levine’s “To Cipriano, in the Wind”
Where did your words go, Cipriano spoken to me 38 years ago in the back of Peerless Cleaners, where raised on a little wooden platform you bowed to the hissing press and under the glaring bulb the scars across your shoulders—“a gift of my country”—gleamed like old wood. “Dignidad,” you said into my boy’s wide …
