Bodega | Today

It is June. I take pictures of my friends

so they don’t die. When I walk past

my childhood house my shoulders drop

from the weight of the sun. In empty afternoons

I eat heavy berries that stain my shirt.

I do not clean it. It is a dirty satisfaction.

Across the street a child is learning

how to ride a bike. Her legs graze the ground

arrhythmically, her grassy knees wobbly

but sure, like a newborn deer.

When was the last time my body learned

something new? My tongue prickles.

I call a friend. After, my mouth is dry and useless.

I wonder why it is so easy to speak

when every word written is bargained for with blood.

This I spoke about with my friend, but our conclusion

I already forgot.

I cannot make things last,

reader, I must tell you:

I cannot make things last.

This is the beginning of my summer.

I look out and see each day standing

before me, fierce and beautiful.

I look down at my hand.

Stretch it wide as I can. It trembles.

I feel a question bloom

from where I don’t know.

—Is this my life?

Today