When Love Is Hard to Talk About
I made ceviche de pescado
This weekend as a surprise for you,
Cutting corvina into cold, white
Slices, fish you could almost see through,
Marinated in lime and coarse salt,
In onions, cilantro, mangos too.
I boiled sweet potatoes, stir-fried the
Corn—you teased me because I had two
Servings, thought about more. I’m happy,
but also frightened when I’m with you,
Worried that I’ll screw it up somehow.
Before we met, I’d learned to make do,
Asked myself, “Why the hurry? It takes
Twenty years to fail at something new.”
Under the bed is a good place. Outside
In the bushes, it’s too hot, and there’re bugs.
Behind the coat rack in the closet it’s
Cool and dark. The jackets smell of the dry
Cleaners. Often, the plastic covering
Is still on. You can sit on the floor and
Listen to the noise the walls make, the fan
On the air conditioner. But, the best
Part about hiding is the voices you
Can barely hear, sometimes irritated,
Sometimes joking, sometimes you can’t tell which.
From under the door, a crack of light makes
The plastic covers shiny. Children aren’t
Supposed to pull them down over their heads,
But they make your face weird in the mirror.
When do you think they’re going to find you?