Abandoned buildings had ancestors
that went up in flames. Gone are the cities
founded by a wolf and her two twins, and
the home made out of twigs was blown away
by a wolf’s twin lungs, like dandelion seeds.
Buildings have nothing to reminisce about
but the whistling of bricklayers, way before
they were stuffed with furniture
and trophies, or wolves laid down
their radioactive fur
on deserted living rooms.
Even after decades of being orphans,
they never long for us,
in the absence of wolves, they wish
for the blessing of collapsing.
Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, and adopted by New York. His poems appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Hanging Loose Magazine, Louisville Review and The Worcester Review, among others, as well as publications in Europe, Asia, Latin America, and Australia. He’s a recipient of multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, and an Honorable Mention from the International Human Rights Art Festival,. His chapbook, Contraband, was published in 2022. In January of 2025, he was appointed Poet Laureate of Rockland County, New York.
