I wake up dream
dreaming gunk from my eyelids.
Pieces of
remembering: the boy who rolls his bicycle
across the
courtyard has not spoken. I see
the dining hall
rebuilt, the walls more solid than the portraits.
Failed faces
with my head too heavy with eye gunk to rise.
I sleep and I
wake awaiting the dream.
The separation
between two neither one more solid
than the
courtyard or the portraits. I see the bicycle as
it rolls down
the center of my spine. The tracks are repetitive.
Tongue clicking
without any words to say eye gunk. I can’t
tell the boy
that the boy he was before was more solid.
There is a space
between the dining hall and the mind
that the bicycle
can’t quite fit through.
Chica is what you call me even as my skin disintegrates into
small islands of
slimy green moss. Chica,
you hold them in
your hands, slip your fingers
between cracks.
You pull infection closer.
Puckering on
your skin, a kiss. Chica.
We will never
really touch, we can never really touch
our selves. Chica is a selva of trees. They all look the same,
and I can’t
remember any of their latin names. I call them
lila, pedro, mariana, but none of them answer.
I know one of
them is you. I am the only tree that is not a tree.
When the wind
passes, it almost sounds like it is saying Chica.
I convince
myself I hear your voice.
I am waiting for
the curve of the wave to touch my tongue
like a
cornflower petal. I am waiting for the stone inside me
to rot into
sunflower seeds and for those sunflower seeds
to be roasted
just cool enough not to burn. I am waiting for my shadows
to turn purple so
I can string them up like day-of-the-dead flags.
I am waiting on
the corner for the light to shine white. I am waiting
for the doors to
slide open so I can step safely over the chasm.
I am waiting to
feel the shade of beaten eggyolk
cake batter
Sunday mornings and sock-footed feet.
I am waiting for
the storm to pass like boxes of light
swinging across the
ceiling. I am waiting to be the inhale
before I open my
mouth. I am waiting to be the expectancy
in the straining
hand. I am waiting for the sand.
