Those men who fought turn out to be friends,
but they drank so much rum that they forgot
about affection, and now the one
who maimed the other
must live with guilt
for the rest of his life.
Of all my rowdy uncles, Manuel is the only one
who drinks so wildly that it’s easy to imagine
violence leading to horrible crimes
like severed hands.
Is that why he looks at me so strangely,
because he suspects I’ve decided to become
the emotional sort of poet who never ignores
injustice, but writes it into a truthful
music of wishes?
I’m only eleven years old,
but that’s plenty of time
to grow, learn, and know
my own soul.