by Silvia Bonilla
I.
I wanted damp
like earth
with fresh rain upon it.
I looked at the moon barging
with its volcano face.
I was scared
to exude my body,
I thought, I’ll be a leaf
on a birch, so I’ll know
of being briefly green.
I was a boy’s fantasy on chalk.
I dreamt permanence sometimes,
when I dreamt, the tree
having sweet plums.
II.
I was paying attention to Sundays,
the walk along the promenade—
My breast sketched under
thin fabric. Men looked, their eyes expectant
as if I’d given them a raffle ticket. My parents lived
in New York. It would’ve been too long of a letter.
They said next year and our papers.
Went to the consulate. I walked to school
alone. My hair just washed.
III.
The heart acts
like a lamp
casts light
on a vision
of a boy
from school,
a boy with warrior eyes
his belly the
white pages of a notebook.
A mind fools itself
with a story
a theme of distance,
sound from the apple of his throat,
hand like a plow.
