July 15, 2015

my fingers taste like metal. a doorknob. the mere sight of endless railings. the subway.

my aunt's eyes, little and sweet, like my grandmother's.
she looks up at what the nurses are doing, stares at the patients.
she turns to me and says something intelligible,
but then she says it a second time, a third, a fourth, and my heart breaks.
her mind is wandering off to all the past she had always felt so much nostalgia for, 
jumbled up now, a strange mosaic.
but sometimes she's focused and hears the screaming from another patient in another room;
she mimicks the wailing and let's out a cackle.
and that's when i know she's not off somewhere, she's there, with me, her usual humor wide open, so crass and wicked.
i slap her on the head with a plastic folder and whisper to her to shut up.
she looks up at me. we both roll our eyes and giggle.

my coughing today had the texture of keys. i felt my throat rough, as if my entire insides wanted to slice their way out.

i saw my aunt yesterday, from afar. i wasn't allowed in to visit her. some procedure shit.
i waved to her from just inside the door before being asked by a nurse's broad back to please kindly get the fuck out. 
my aunt looked up, her cute beady eyes lighting up her whole face. an instant smile. 
two instant smiles.
she can still recognize me.

violent rain. it pierces the air and everything moves against its will.
everyone runs for cover. i clasp onto my umbrella and stay still.
the sky is made of steel. 
a man is trying to sell his cellphone. his wife has just died. he's crying.
i feel everything gray against my tongue.
the sky slips slowly down my throat.
it is a gun. the sky is a gun.
there's nothing to do.

today i go inside the hospital room. the lights are out. every patient is sleeping, including my aunt. i look down at her, at her heavy breathing. she's sleeping. sleeping, like when we shared our bed during late afternoon naps, or when i would come back from someplace and find her on the couch waiting for me between snore and slumber. she's sleeping, and i bend down to kiss her forehead, her cheek, my fingers caressing her bright motherly skin. she stirs a little but keeps sleeping, keeps dreaming. i leave the room, happy that she looks so placid, so at peace in deep sleep, sleeping, like i remember her sleeping. i smile. i don't want to say goodbye. i quicken my pace into a run. i wish she could just keep sleeping on like that. i wish we didn't have to say goodbye.
a window stare. his coffee cup sighs. it sits and waits. i sip, outside.

June 20, 2015


my ideas are short, and still i keep running out of paper.


a love letter is something devised for one's own pleasure. an apology note reads the same, only with tears. lists as reminders. instant messages an opportunity for pain or amusement. e-mails never know if they're getting close enough, and that ground-breaking paper no one is waiting for will never be written in this lifetime, by this hand.


i imagine that i write to you, from border to border of a page, the luxury of time and sentiment at ease upon my lap. and yet, i do not know what i am writing, but whenever i press that last button in this less than starry-eyed daze of a world, i know that whatever i have written, it is never really for you.

May 13, 2015

firefly summer
gap-toothed &
ice-cream sandwiches
& a happy scar
someone's childhood
i don't remember being 10
she folds the paper
   once     twice
as many times as
raindrops soften
the earth outside
this place of  overlaps
& silence
              a fish
in the end

April 29, 2015

la manzana sobre la mesa no dice nada
se come sola mientras me ve pasar
buscando calor en la mirada apagada
de todo aquello que me saborea triste

April 8, 2015


según toda señal, la temporada por fin se acomodó hace tres días. siete a.m., y un nuevo brote de pecas en los brazos que avientan sofocados tanta cobija innecesaria de encima. flechas de luz por la ventana, muerte por calor. todo brilla un poco más de lo usual pero casi nada se mueve. lo mudo del hartazgo. desaliento a destiempo. me levanto y tomo asiento. no sé qué hacer. me cansé de esperarte, primavera.


aquí a mi lado tengo un zopf de chocolate y una cerveza que no te ven llegar. en este momento estoy calculando qué tan lejos estoy del amor y los buenos días -- un océano y dos mares, aproximadamente. cuento mis centavos, mis historias. tomo más cerveza. no lloro. el cuarto se hunde en lo denso de todos estos beats que me enviaste para hacerme saber que no estamos tan solos. escucho con atención. no lloro (pero casi).


pocas cosas suceden en blanco y negro, y aun así, allá, hay alguien que insiste en enunciar lo que ya ha caducado. sé de una casa cuyo jardín se deja despeinar exuberante con el suspiro de los montes. acá, más cerquita, veo esquinas abrirse, portazos, derrumbes. un espresso doble en la barra. el imprudente rebasar de un taxi. el tiempo que cansado amanece sin saber cómo llegó ahí. nada de esto me pertenece, claro, pero por momentos, siento que sí.