Son in the background,
Mother in the fields.

She tends the garden that will die.
She grows guarapo. She serves.

A broken window remains; my brother’s room
empty. Do not look. It is just me.

Maybe the mirror is the man
in the house long gone,

ready to abandon it all,
forget his kids, forget his debts
and his vows?

I often think of mirrors,
how they could be portals. Let us count

the smoke and disappear.
Smoke is the first thing I remember.

I remember a man now gone.
Smoke shaped like a cloud.

In the night of stars,
you are a shimmering brown beauty.

What is poetry if not madness.
Look at us in love.

My god. My god. My god. He belongs here!

Here is a lamentation, an attestation.
Here is the documentation of my faults:

The painkillers.
The positive result.
The termination letter.

The know-it-all handbook of life.
The sleepless doll.
The sweet slumbering nights.

Will my body be enough?

To be wanted,

to be held,

to be called beautiful

by the man in front of me.

I left my cross with my mother in the pond,
yet I lie awake asking for God.

This potion of delusions and bad kisses
that are really good in my mouth

and gayness on full display.

He is very gay even
if he doesn’t show it. He knows it.

He can be a good man.

The fires have gathered
at the dining table.

No one comes.