tobirama by Julio César Villegas
it was blue noon, a high tide, prom night in C-minor,
inkblots on our rented faces, youth enough for all of us:
what’s the color of the present if none of us were to look?
it’s 4:32 in somewhere’s morning, there’s manuscripts, air,
inflation, drawn lines, bilingual effigies, a line I can’t cont—
let alone untangle. coil, cobra, eddy, angel’s strand, karma.
I was around seven years of age when I was first taught
that we have more names than things. 4:32 is really 10:37,
lavender is noun, preposition, verb; Caribbean is active,
historical/pre-historical present. I recognized that splash,
the sound we were supposed to hear as first & last name,
the arm delivered to me wrapped in tomorrow’s headline.
If any of you read my notes, know I was never angry at you.
I wasn’t angry at the plunge. I wasn’t angry at the high tide.
I wasn’t angry at its compound effect. I wasn’t angry at you,
nor me, nor great-great Tía Desconocida, at patience, plows,
static serenaded in shrapnel, sword: synonym for something,
I wasn’t angry at you. somewhere along the lineage we’ll meet,
you’ll see how we painted a generation across an entire decade.
it’s absurd, we couldn’t explain it to you, neither of us know how,
but we’re learning how to. don’t intercept our instinct for true north.
it’s 20:21 in somewhere’s siesta: lipstick on Gloria’s rented tuxedo,
two villanelles and one sonnet etched down Rey’s face and neck,
this Miyazaki rerun. modern freezeframe of technicolor antithesis.
you read the synopsis of yesterday’s film: it was blue noon, a high tide,
the house phone rings, you pick it up. you wait patiently : a splash
Puerto Rico Se Levanta.
Follow Julio's tweets from the abyss at @VforVillegas
