JUAN

I sit tied and gagged.

She is there, behind the curtain.

The tight cloth choking my mouth keeps me safe.

She can’t hear the stories I tell myself in secret.

In silence.

Hidden.

I talk to the tables and walls.

I talk to the people and fruit trees

and horses and fish

in the paintings.

These are the stories I tell in my mind:

Fevers. Scars. Wilderness.

Once, on a day when I was not tied up and gagged,

I took some brushes that Don Nicolás had given me.

I was angry. I painted a witch.

The witch was doctoring a demon,

    healing the demon

    taking care of the demon.

    The witch was happy.

The demon was sorrowful.

Everyone who saw my painting laughed

    except Toribio,

    my father,

    honorable tailor

    a good man who wants nothing to do with magic

    of the evil sort.

He took my paint brushes away.

Now I have nothing left

    only verses

    and secrets.