05
Summers

With an old stone church for a goal,
and painted-white sycamores
for opposition,
the boy would slalom
through the long afternoons of childhood.
Beneath the fronds of his hair,
blotchless skin and dark eyes
were awaited by the world.

Then he was ten, it was May
and Nandi heard Papi in the hall on the phone.
Si Mister, Si Si. He will be there,
In the mornin [...]
Si, Mister, 7am, no manzanilla!
After, the kid slid out his room,
ran his hand on along the wall,
buried his head in Papi’s belly and let the tears fall.