Two of Wands

My father was born in 1938.
The year Hitler marched into Austria.
The year the NY Yankees d. the Chicago Cubs (4-0).
At 41, in 1979 his wife gave birth to me. 
Now, in October of 2020, while a pandemic sweeps the world, 
and America has a Gemini for a president, 
we wait for the world to crack, 
we give ourselves to our vices and our passions, 
intertwined, we crave
the hot love of someone, 
anyone, because before all this happened, we were too busy,
too busy healing and drinking, 
too busy buying shit we didn’t need, but even now, my father
reminisces back to 1983, and four year-old me is chaotically waiting for him by the door, his long way home from driving buses, but four year-old me doesn’t understand hard work, she understands that his attention feels good and that she wants pastelitos con curtido, elotes, minutas, kolachampan y sorbetes.
He still plays the lottery, hoping to leave me something he wasn’t able to give me himself.
At home, I reminisce on all the ways I’ve kept myself stagnant, all the ways I never went anywhere because the world was always too vast, too foreign, and I was too soft, too porcelain, too abstract.
Now, we balance patience on our beaks, 
we plug and abide,
we are activated by the silence of our minds—
we do each task, each fight, each kiss as if it’s our last
we laugh as if we’re starving—
our teeth bankrupt at our feet, 
acidic in their foaming.
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