Being born.
Before me, standing up, I see my father powdering my neck,
helping me fit my school shirt. Him and I don’t look the same—just the eyebrows,
cut short, the temperament, and the way we love.
He doesn’t know my world, doesn’t get what I do for work,
but he knows that wherever I go, I’ll do good, cause I’m
his son.
“Never cover your face. You are not a criminal,” he said when I went out to protest.
“Be polite, behave, respect your elders.
Don’t let them tell you what to do, if
you don’t want me to tell you what to do.
Be careful of the hearts you could be
breaking. Be a man of your word.
Promise me you’ll never give up, even if I tell
you to come home. I’m just missing you.”
Of course he never told me none of those things, but I can
read his eyes—or at least that’s what I want to believe.
Growing old, I powder my own neck
and help my lover get dressed.
Mangal.
The waves crash against the trees.
Their bodies don’t move
an inch, but mine gets carried away at the shore
of the beach.
Mangroves are old, wise and strong.
They know secrets told by the wind
and understand the croaking of frogs.
I was not invited to the witches’ walk
by the shallow waters,
but I’ve heard their song echoed on the breeze
the morning after.
From the sky descends the lightning,
and from my room I hear the thunder
like gunshots, like martyrs crying.
This town was not born in a steel womb.
A swamp was cut
and cement was poured.
Now little is left, and they are too shy to tell,
but I know my house is a graveyard;
and the plague is selling beachfront properties and luxury real estate.