BELLY: Birthing (from Milagros, unpublished)
I am not the boy he wanted,
his palms lifting up the wet jungle
sopping soaking death
in the air passing
in the wind a tornado
I came from the exploding vacuum
into his hands smaller
lighter than an M16
an agile weapon against mortality
FOOT: Our Dance (from Milagros, unpublished)
Kitten heels. Gleaming white.
Laid out gently over his feet
cloaked in black leather.
Un dos tres. Un dos tres.
Un valtz, he said looking down
my eyes looking up—a distance
connected by the constant count,
the drum beat steady. My hands
in his hands. My first lesson—
He could lead me but not hold me;
the steps in time were mine to make.