when i was ill
|
i lay in a field
of flowering succulents — i couldn’t rise. a doctor passed on horseback & i lapped a small pool of medicine from their palm. the hawks picked my box of strings to pieces. i held a rusted harmonica to my lips. the heat curved its reeds into sliding notes & i mimicked a dying wind. a leather pouch was fastened to my neck. it held a lover’s ring. i carried it to remember what i bound myself to. in a fever-dream, i stood before a lone white horse in the rain. the birds were loudest in the morning. i told myself they sang to keep daylight from coming, but the blue dawn crept in anyway. i wanted to end before i knew how i would end — under a jacaranda, i stared into the sky & whispered luna, cuentame tus sueños — i knew i would die here. |
|
Alfredo Aguilar is the son of Mexican immigrants. He is the author of the forthcoming chapbook, What Happens On Earth (BOAAT Press, 2018). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Iowa Review, The Shallow Ends, Best New Poets 2017, and elsewhere. He lives in North County San Diego.