in a different country,
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I was allowed to forget
how there is no loneliness like ours. I did not search for signs I might take back, no directions to move me into feeling. I was not envious of the trees, the certainty with which they know to be trees. It was almost spring. I laid in bed and ran one hand down my chest, then between my legs. I did not think of you. In the distance, a pair of brown cows lowed and chewed their cud together. I did not think of us. It was almost spring. I read “a happy bee will fly a thousand miles, will tap a million flowers, to make a single pound of honey.” I did not think of me. |
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Ricardo Hernandez is the son of Mexican immigrants. A recipient of fellowships from Lambda Literary and Poets House, his work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Cortland Review, and Newtown Literary. He is an MFA candidate at Rutgers-Newark.