I gasped,
Over and over again I gasped.
Maybe he was in my lungs
And that’s why I had such a hard time breathing,
But he wasn’t there-
I know because I’ve always had bad lungs.
Perhaps that’s the reason I haven’t caught him,
My lungs gave out
When he took his leave.
Which I’m okay with-
You can’t run very far without a spine.
With angles jagged, bits of ceramic protrusionsstarkly contrasting with the linoleum floor,
its remnants scattered confusedly about,
mingled with shards of shining glass
that reflect the sunlight as it glares
down, its golden force enough
to unsettle an immovable
object, for isn’t the sun
an irresistible force?
Having settled on
the mantelpiece,
for years on end,
housing the flowers
that had woefully keeled
due to the harsh sun that refused
to reduce the passion with which it burned,
due to the sorry paucity of sustenance, of respite
from stifling days whose ardor never cooled, due to an
unfathomable weakness that had never existed before, did
the flowers drop from the pride of an incomparable beauty, to
the misery of loneliness, whose only comfort was the lone ceramic
vase whose cracks widened with each elapsing hour, courtesy of the
overwhelming heat, whose ardor never deigned to cool, whose rays
forced grace to stoop to inelegance, which compelled the formerly
vibrant stalks to yellow and crumble, also obliging the once purple
petals to wither, to droop sadly to the side, upsetting the precious,
the delicate balance of the plants, letting the vase tip one day,
precariously, to the right, sending it hurtling, streaking to the
linoleum floor, ending in a deafening shatter of ceramic
against the unyielding, beige flooring, then creating
absolute chaos from tranquility, unsightliness
from past beauty, violent pink fragments
from a united piece of ceramic craft,
whose denizens lay dispersed
amid the wreck of skill,
which was provoked
by the glowing sun
it was my second favorite skyentirely blue
dotted with
sporadically placed clouds
I wanted to whisper into his soft ears
they painted the sky for you today
it’s funny how such a beautiful sky
could be a day when a goodbye is said
a permanent goodbye
when something leaves
that you know is never coming back
if there is some afterlife
or a heaven
I know that he’s there
he’s running faster than he ever did
I saw him running just yesterday
before the little spots of cancer
became not so little
I like to think that he fought until the end
that he put on a smile
despite everything going on in his head
but in the end he won
the woman in the white coat
let him go
she freed him
and now he is running
through the sky
I can see him through the clouds
that I once imagined
held castles
but now holds my best friend
the closest thing I ever had
to a little brother
so thanks for the last 11 years
of chasing each other through the sprinklers
while you tried not to get wet
for sneaking you bacon treats
and our walks through the neighborhood
I hope you never forget
all of the secrets I told you
the times when I sat with you
even when I said nothing at all
I’ll never forget you
and when I think I might
all I have to do
is look up at the sky
When the cold slips in,
I can feel my heart start ticking,
like a time bomb waiting to fracture.
And I wish the sound didn’t hurt you,
but by the looks of things, it already has.
And I wish my soul would scald a dove’s wing
because I am more empty than pure;
more fed up with forevermore.
Yet sleep is somehow comforting.
I revel in its sores
—still bruising, since yesterday’s summer.
Back Again
Florida
I am not the only one uncomfortable here
but I am one of few.
Jose says that there’s more here,
more than enough rainwater to go around.
If you work hard, you live well.
The way things used to be at home.
Clara and Carlos agree,
Mama just offers a rubbery smile.
Papa’s eyebrows furrow
every
night
because
he’s rebuilding.
I wear a smile that mirrors Mama’s at school,
where American children speak English
and smile
and joke.
I tell them about Castro and the beach and being almost wealthy.
They smile.
Is it the same as a joke?
I have not eaten plantains since the trip.
Sometimes tears roll down my cheeks at the thought.
We are so close, and so far, all into one,
but my friends are still a world away.
Mami used to grow plantains,
and I feel like I won’t remember the taste of sunshine.
The surf here is saltier,
the beach has less sun.
But I still spend all of my time mingling with the waves.
If I stare long enough, I can see my island.
The waves have the power to carry us to another shore,
the way they carried us here.
I want to love it here, the way the others do.
I do.
Papi says it’s harder to find things in plain sight.
America is a land paved with opportunity.
I will find it.
I will.
The beach is where I become one.
Grains of sand form my skin,
Waves help me to swim.
Rays of sun combine to form my glare
and seaweed dangles in ringlets down my back.
Grains of salt are the Spanish words that fall
out of my lips.
They surf along the waves where Castro
will not find them.
Though I have the legs to stand,
they all,
water,
the surf,
the sand that forms land,
have more of a voice than I,
a spoiled little girl from Havana.
Papi built his business
right
up
from the
ground,
like the seeds of Mami’s plants.
When people stopped wanting cars, Papi could make do,
just like the broken stems of weak plants do.
But the problem is when no one needs.
Castro says Papi doesn’t need to own,
so out of Papi’s hands and into Castro’s the cars go.
Once, we were not far from being rich
But with
Mami and Papi
and
Jose and Maria
and
Clara and Carlos, plus a new baby on the way,
we’re so much farther from wealth now.
Especially since our new houseguest,
the one they call Communism,
takes so much from many,
and says we’re all to get the same.
Why doesn’t he understand
not every seed can grow with
a measly inch of rain?
Why is there a cotton ball in the Advil jar?
Did you tell him a secret that he couldn’t keep?
Did you tell him that you would always love him, before you threw him away?
And why, oh why, would you think that it would be any different this time?
I hope there’s peanut butter still left in the jar in the pantry
I can’t remember what happened last night but I do know that peanut butter was involved
So involved, why do we do this to ourselves?
Humans, trembling and vulnerable, yet we bring this cruelty into our own lives by our very own doings
Telling each other lies because the truth is awfully boring to bear and
Why do my fingers keep typing when all my mind wants to do is SCREAM!
This is not right, this is not right!
And let these words ring out, free and unadulterated (much unlike you and I)
And let them echo out into the vortex that is the nighttime
When you are alone and isolated
And a teenager.
with each sunrise,
I fall in love with the idea of you
Of people and places and things but oh, mostly you
Of some sort of better life out there
Of greener grass and sweeter smiles.
Maybe if we close our eyes
And wish and hope and dream that things will be all right (ha! A-okay!)
Then hey, maybe they will be.
And maybe the sky won’t seem so dark, and my heart won’t feel so damn h e a v y,
Because when the sun rises, our sighs fall,
and tears of joy trickle down my chin, making their own way down to you and
your caresses, so strong yet so gentle all at once.
Oh, and you fail to see the things about myself that I personally like the least, and
oh, you make me feel like the girl I wish I could see when I look at my damn self in the mirror.
You make me feel like I could never fail, at anything, ever, at all.
Because when our foreheads are pressed together, and I taste the salt on your tongue, I fall in love with the way leftover pizza lingers on your tastebuds, the feeling of chills on spines, and electric shocks on fingertips.
You make me feel like I’m already the person I could only dream about becoming one day.
The way you look at me, oh, you belong somewhere else, like in my bed or on my table, and I take a swig from the bottle when I finally come to the conclusion that any one of these days, you could just walk right on out of here, with that intoxicating swagger like you always have and that little smirk that always taunts me, and you could find something new that you like better.
Like hacky-sacks, or homemade Kettle Corn.
But oh – you make me feel so damn raw, and I mean that in the best way possible,
Like I’m still a little child with skinned knees – with you I might be bruised from before, from the past, but I’m still secure and safe with you now, and
When your fingers slip their way into my own, the way your little smirk slips onto your face, I smile, too, because
I know you like me way better than Kettle Corn.
Inkling 