by Rosana Garcia

I let you hide in mystery. I’m not seeking you out or making you
cross my way. I can’t let the sizzle-pop of my skin when I saw you
shirtless through my tequila haze determine everything. I kissed you eagerly,
hiding in the stainless steel of the kitchen. I knew you’d hit the liquor.
I don’t know if you remember any of this, but I stopped, pulled back
and went home. I said, “I had a picture of how this would happen and this
isn’t that picture.” You stand in the posture of tough, the strength apparent
in the way you hold your shoulders, the firmness of your arms, the curl
of your fist. You dance and touch and flirt with all the girls, know that you
can break hearts and do it anyway, your voice reaches and hooks in deep,
but there must be something besides all that. I’ll slip my hand under your shirt,
run fingers from your chin to your lips and into your mouth to be at the source
of your words, to find the meaning and stand in it. I trust that there is beauty.
Perhaps it’s easier for me to think you’re the vulnerable little boy that will want
my protection when I’m the one looking for safety in this small darkness.

November 2002

(c) 2006 understar productions and Rosana Garcia