i grew up in a small farm in población,
the cornstalks competing with sun,
the earth with holy feet.
bore witness to no less than thirty
tragedies-at-sea. at night,
the lighthouse organizes witch hunts along
the shadowy sands and muted cabaret.
i discovered the charm of hair at fifteen;
the power of words a little earlier, when
a girl that eventually broke my heart asked
why i write.
her voice is like rain.
whenever it rains i hear whisperers from
the driven-away of whatever-it-washed.
i could hear rust forming.
on my toes grew tongues that remember the taste
on the surfaces (whenever i bare my feet)
of the snowflakes that patterned their shivers upon them.
— A. P.