I See In My Hands The Hands Of My Friends
(modeled after Rafael Vargas' poem "Miro en mis manos las manos de mis padres)
I see in my hands the hands of my friends,
our days together now fleeting,
the sounds of our laughter,
the warmth their hugs bring me,
I often see them in my hands.
Hanging out at someone's house or eating lunch,
games of Trump I'll never win,
above a bag of popcorn.
I see in my hands my loves,
my first day of high school and my heart with spaces, now filled.
Now they are displeased and the balance is disturbed.
And the relationship, that sacred connection, where has it gone?
The walls are breaking down, and now I sit all alone.
All that remains is a box,
the cries of war emanating from within.
I stir.
How scary it is to be on the front line alone!
But the box still cries.
I see in my hands that unavoidable sharp gleam of light,
with which the box will use to tear into me.