I never learned anything well—
I’ve been moving through as best as I can fake it.
As long as my point can get across, I have no expectations about sounding like a scholar—
I am not important, my miniscule web isn’t intricate, but it catches what it needs.
As a child I had this dream where I learned English and learned to say the things
I couldn’t in Spanish.
Now, I can’t say much in either without missing something urgent—essential.
I’m half inside a sentence, then something wilts and breaks—a word, a sentence—an exclamation.
In between caring and disappearing, I’m ready to die— but only after I’ve made love to my husband a million more times.
More smiles and more laughter please, more arguments that give me wisdom please—
Feed me food that pours down on me like honey, let me feel his hands on me another couple thousand decades—I don’t need much before I go, I just want more of him and us
more forgiveness and a lighter heart—I want umbilical parties with all my mothers
I want my siblings to crawl inside my pockets—I want to feel afraid again, I want fevers and medicine—ambulance rides and explanations of healing—I want a side by side—more dancing, less fear—a goodbye that feels like a nap I’ll never wake up from.
