I think of old Caribbean men
who stand in the back
at weddings,
their faces creased.
They angle
coins in their pockets
to claim a grasp on calm.
Their eyes go
this way & that
—this way & that.
& the aunties
are fat with thick
whiskers on their chins.
They wear wide-brimmed
hats & dresses in bright
yellows, reds, & whites.
There will be
no wedding for us.
I am leaving you,
& in the apartment we shared,
there is nothing left
on the walls
but nails
that held
our engagement
pictures. Everything
I own has been hauled
back to my childhood
home.
José Armando
For days now,
she’s worn
a stranger’s face
—tight, unreadable.
& now she’s leaving.
I don’t want her to go.
Shadow
Yesterday,
everything was bedrock,
determined & solid.
You gripped
each other’s hands firmly,
surrounded
by leaves in shades
of green, yellow, red. You
promised
to love
each other
—until the kingdom,
until the power
& the glory,
until the Amen.
& today: this.
She wants to throw
something. But
she doesn’t want
that thing to break.
Every now & then,
she feels flashes
of strangeness.
It’s like lightning
in the night,
when suddenly
the world turns bright
& the harsh positions
of objects are revealed.
José Armando
Every time
she leaves me,
she packs
all my metaphors
in a torn
suitcase—all my cadences
& hyperboles,
even the syllables
of my own name.
I am left only
with a thick,
heightened
silence,
an absence
of verb.
I can no longer
write about what used
to be, about what is,
& all the future
holds out to me
in promises
is the blur of hot
breath & the howling
in my chest that can’t
make its way
through my throat.
My torment
cannot be
translated into
anaphora & dissonance.
Every time
you leave me,
dark things crowd
me: they don’t follow
you into the Metro after
your composed goodbyes
& well-behaved tears:
they yell
& make accusations:
they no longer
speak in stanzas
& pentameters: they move
in pangs, shakes,
little tiny heartbreaks
imploding
my ribcage, quick
tides of ache,
& moonless sleeps.
My twisted body
feels its every knot.
In my veins:
pure chaos.
Every time
you leave me,
I am legion
—until the sun rises
or doesn’t, until the harsh
light of the day moves
like a slow rolling
stone over the sky.
I want to make you
happy, okay?
Paloma
Every time I return
from the therapist’s office,
I walk around with letters
in my head. Imagined
but not composed,
composed but not addressed,
addressed but undelivered,
delivered but unopened,
opened but unread,
read but misunderstood,
& then I’m writing
another letter
& another.
All of them
about break-ups.
Shadow
Without her,
you are the awful quiet
of morning, before
the first train leaves
its