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.