Poetry

If you had asked me, thirteen, what I wanted
to be one day, I wouldn’t have said it.

The anemone of your dream blooms
inside the vacuum of space.
In your pocket of black wind

He says he’s never really stopped
speaking to God. Says it’s in his DNA, asking
for things.

When my body blew open
the shadow-glass cloud
galloped through me, glittered

I count gulls until they spasm
into numbers, until I grasp
a number never uttered.

At night in the field, I felt the curvature of a palpable
time around me, felt the dark
foam of the waveform rise and collapse

It is easier for people to think I wanted
a dick swinging between my legs.

It makes more sense that way instead of the
facial hair that came at the same time

The summer after, a storm
split the sky over Hergla and I wanted to be in it.

Every day there’s the bay, every day, every night, once, it was Estero de Jaltepec:

Christmas, flew home packaged like a gift. Beneath my jeans a childlike padding. Came to adore the wee god, his dolorous mother.