I want to appear to You in sandwiches,
water markings on the ceiling,
mold above the toilet,
patterns in woven baskets,
a scatterplot depicting
the correlation between people who lick
their ice cream and people who bite
their ice cream and whether or not they lie
about how many books they’ve read.
I want you to gather strangers around
the image of me because you’ve gotta
make sure it’s me and not a trick
your eyes are playing on You.
And I want the strangers to confirm your vision,
I want them to tell tales about me,
I want endless products in the shape of me
available in delis and on the side of the road,
I want to be the one abuelitas light candles beneath
and I want to be the picture on the candle, stretched out
and replicated, I want to be the one who gets daughters
into colleges with full rides,
brings the GoFundMe page to completion,
gets shoved
into the backpack during the big flood,
gets hanged
from doorknobs in new apartments
as a sign of protection, as a sign that
whoever lives there is loved.
I want everyone to believe in me eventually
but I want it to be You
who finds me, plain as day,
blooming among the flowers,
shining from the hill,
taking shape everywhere I shouldn’t,
obvious and made of light.
Of course he loves her back.
They are pájaritos.
Little lovebirds
vibrating next to
one another in their
cages as the day
turns into the night.
Time passes.
Y el tiempo?
Se pasa y se pasa.
Because of that
she is lucky,
but a part of her
still remains
in the hole.
There are worms
here, now.