Put This Book Down

Cariño, you’ve never lived my war—
            a glass of fresh water in the ocean.
Everything is mine
            on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.
I want to mold what I cannot return to,
            let me say
palm, coconuts on palms, water. Let me say
            I know how to unsheathe husks to shut my thirst.

Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.