Ladies and Gentlemen, permit me to introduce ‘The Rough Riders of the World.’ poem #13

How do you begin to put into a letter,

decades of deserted words, of unused love?

How do I begin to tell you

how long I’ve waited for you,

to love me?

I often cook over a stove and 

watch my food catch fire.

I eat it, charred and pulverized.

I eat it,

to remind me of all the words 

I’ve burnt in the midst of your fire.

“me muero de frio.”

What words do I have inside me now, in this wild and vacant life?

Your shadow moves with mine,

a vestige I rub my thumb against.

The moon is a liar, she fills me with 

a light that wanes, like you…

I wait, and nothing.

I love you, and nothing.

I whisper to you when the pain is too huge, and nothing.

I rub my soft hands on my own temple and hug my abdomen,

feeling myself birth,

a version of me

that doesn’t carry you with it. 


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