Two Guavas, Produce Warehouse on Ave. 3ra
Last night, your body reappeared
from months away.
This morning, after debate, an underwire
for the sweat.
This afternoon, still soaked
through my button down.
Yellow fruits, near soft, in each hand,
I think of what dreams mean.
Dos pesos, lindísima, says the man, his scale
mud-caked. I wonder if he also stares after girls
with short hair, if he loves guava for its red flesh,
for the act of biting in,
how it sticks,
how it stays.
At the tracks behind the polliwog pond,
mom pulls pennies from loose cutoffs like they are tadpoles
or winnings, like I held a girl’s
frog legs. Mom, tell me you were not also
greedy. Tell me about your body,
queer thing, somewhere between
one being and two,
still hiding your form to clothe it all.
She holds the coins to my weeping willow face
and shows how I will change their shape,
how they will flatten under freight.
These, the hands she used to rear me
around a pond, to pass time ruining pennies.
This, from you, how I learned to be a train,
lay into girls like they are soft copper on a track,
to run, and not be run,
to wreck, lest I be wrecked.