by Iliana Rocha
The time to do it is yesterday, was, was, is, will.
The little boy gifts me his, then he walked into
a separate darkness, continually walks into, will
walk, will, will. A darkness separate from mine
was, is, was like this: will be. He tells, told, keeps
telling, breaks, breaks, breaks, breaking into
no neatness all, just like time passed, passing.
There is a tree will be covered with golden leaves,
leaves shook with each jerk, jerking of a branch.
He wants, wanted to go higher until he will fall,
having the wind knocked out of him. Broken
ribs, branches, all of us on the ground together,
fumbling, fumble, fumbled for a reach, a reach
of any kind, stretches out like railroad tracks
leave here. The asterisk stars were, are will never
be any help like a map helped, will help, there
he was, there I is, dresses will be scatter, pink
islands. They say, said, will surely say, they do
not, does not understand this time, sequence of
events, but who ever will, does. For a while, this
pause, pausing, much like guilt is a pause, does
not, will not, did not go anywhere, but planted,
is planting, itself into intestines, golden leaves
emerging, flirt with the wind, will flirt with other
branches, hands, will always be is, is, was.
“Coming Out,” from KARANKAWA by Iliana Rocha. Copyright © 2015 by Iliana Rocha. Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.