unsolicited solitude, slinking, squirming this is not
ometepetl, the nahuatl fire-gods are not
singing in my ear and i am not
home, but rather
in a place.
from here, we grow.
riveting tin to hear the rain at night
pulling out moon and chickenwire from my hair
the uneven sunset, imperfect lives we fix our gaze upon.
who gets our help?
who gets to help us?
who gets to be a part of these clandestine whispers,
the ones of the first world (or last), the ones of love and hate
of a life so unbearable that one must move?
certainly not i, to any of these. not today.
"¿has visto managua, chico?"
"no."
"quizás algun día..."
he shakes his head.
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