written for a friend*

I let the butterflies out
From my chest
Willingly

And see them burn themselves
One by one
Just to write your name.

News Item: Cold kills the poor in Brazil’s richest city
June 30, 2016*

Cold creeps again, pale as Death
Her long arms emaciated,
Bloodless.

Her sharp fingernails,
Dripping with dirt
Marking my skin, her territory.

My skin - a stranger’s skin
My blood, she draws
No blood. No longer mine.

“You are mine,” her whisper, cold.
Her eyes of death,
Piercing my soul

A single breath
I keep hidden under
My blanket, stripping me

Homeless.
“The security officers did it.” local media accused.
But I am homeless. Stripped.

“Please. Bring my blanket back first.
Please.
It's cold in here."

Little people thrive in the dark, said the old man.
And so I told my cousin: “Turn the lights on.”
A stream of light washed us.
“There was no difference,” I told him.
We are still little people, living little lives.
And so I told him: “Put the lights off.”
“There was no difference."
Eagerly he obliged.
I closed my eyes. And so was he.

Darkness grows what the light cannot, added the old man.
I felt my hands lengthened and so my legs.
“Cousin, I’m growing, I’m growing,” I shouted,
Rousing my cousin to no avail for he’s on deep sleep.

The last thing I saw was the moonlight seeping in,
Revealing what I truly am, what the darkness cannot.

(Young Girl Jenny Guides Her Blind Father Dodong To Work Everyday)*

Before the dawn comes,
I sit on the shoulders

Of my blind father,
To be his eyes.

Today, like other days,
Heavy mountains

Will be my playground.
Coconut heads

He will gather
And I, the dried leaves.

He will not complain,
For I will sing to him.

“You are not heavy,”
He would say.

Father, will there be heavier
Than this world to bear?

I spent the morning
Looking at you
Every now and then
An old friend talks to you
You accepted them
One by one
See,  they have returned
I told you they would
Like that story, a father to his son
You accepted them
I’m your friend
I lose a body part
Every time a friend arrives
And knocks a piece of me
An ear now, an eye later
A hand here, a leg there
No tearing of limbs
But a silent diminution
An erasure to an unwritten pact
I called your name
You hear me, a whisper now
Of a wind.

The sky
Is a book

I read
At night

And open
In the morning.

I planted a kitten
Inside a milk can
I waited for it to grow.
I waited
And waited.
I went to church.
Dressed pure in white.
Pray for it, said my grandmother.
I did.
I poked the eyes of the Father
In his picture frame
With his fingers crossed.
I crossed my fingers too &
Painted them purple, his eyes.
And waited
For the leaves to spring
Instead of fur
I looked inside the milk can
A pair of eyes I saw
Not the kitten's.
His body not moving
Dressed in gray.