You weren’t there, but late at night,
As the wind pressed open the window and
Blew in our neighbors’ arguing,
I could pretend you were.
Last I’d heard,
You were making a living by the border,
Wandering through Lemon Groves
And fixing up bicycles for the mango
It was too hot for even the thinnest sheets,
So I poured glasses of water onto my bed and
Sink water mixed with my own sweat,
I didn’t know I could miss you this bad.
You’d be up with me if you were here, I just
And you’d be lecturing me on Reagan and the
Cold War and other things I don’t care about,
But I’d listen because it’d be you.
Instead, I’m sweaty and this breeze is too hot
to do anyone any good,
And no one knows where you are.
Every once in a while, Mom will have an
But her uncertainty’s in her brows — I know
you know what I mean.
I wonder if the Spirit leads you through the
lemon orchard late at night,
Your skin smelling of Menudo and weed and
the cologne I got you last Christmas,
And I wonder if you trip on the tree roots and
the wheelbarrow ruts.
Does the Spirit remind you of me? Of my
brother? I hope so.
It’s your fault, this buzzing heat
That sneaks in and creeps into every corner of
Is Mom awake? I doubt she is.
She’s good at sleeping when it’s hot and dry
and sleeping seems impossible.
It’s three in the morning and I remember that
If you were here,
You’d be brewing coffee and reading
You didn’t make any sense to me. Maybe you
Tonight, a bitterness drifts in with the breeze,
Weighing it down, like you do to me.
The whole world must be hot and the whole
world must be up
And the whole world must be tired of
wondering where the hell you are.