poetry reflection

Nica left me with a full heart and also a stomach virus.

so I'm spending some time curled up in bed, slowing down, editing things, reflecting. Here's one of what might be multiple poems I'll post that was written within the past week.

These are the Words

These are the words

you tell me that I don’t believe:

that you are secretly a lion,

that my Spanish makes sense,

that those scars on your thumb knuckles –

un accidente.

We are on the top of a volcano

when you tell me, the American,

that you, the orphan,

have family in a place far off,

a house where your mother lives, your father,

five brothers, all older.

The “yes” you say is soft and sad

after “do you miss them?”

It is something I believe.

After you say it,

I begin to imagine the small house

with the mother, father, five brothers.

I begin to imagine you there with them,

keepable.

I begin to imagine you clothed and full there,

speaking English like you do now,

and I begin to imagine the words I'd use

to tell you it was possible that way,

being there,

and I begin to imagine you shinning to hear those words,

if they were true.

And I can’t help but imagine

in place of the small house,

my own heart:

its delicate neighborhoods,

its streets laid with promises orphaned and kept,

where I imagine you residing

in so large an estate.