Substitution
Astrid Guevara
My father takes my hands
in his as we walk
through the desolate neighborhood.
Usually fruiting with flowers,
voices, laughter and gossip,
the street is dark.
How much farther? Jhonny asks.
He’s younger than me, his feet stumbling, his small hands
rubbing his eyes.
We’re here, my daddy says and we gaze
at the fields designating the end of the street.
We sit at the single bench facing
the trees the grass and the wind
and the sky so big I could touch it.
It’s like the blue and the green are
reaching for each other, even though the
dark tsunami of the night pushes them apart.
Papi coughs. A breeze blows and I catch
a whiff of ripe mangoes and of him, the smell that always
follows after his flights away from home.
But his times here stay longer with me
unlike the aroma on him which
the sweet waters of our summers and
the nostalgic palm trees take away and
the jealous sun disintegrates, leaving
behind my daddy.
The silent green of the grass blinds us of his constant work,
and of our incompleteness
during the rainy season.
Do you see those stars? He asks
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