i called you. your number isn’t in service anymore. our connection has been burnt to ashes.
Self-destructing is charging out of the door at three in the morning, barefoot; when the trees resemble hunched, thin witches, where something small and black scuttles across the pavement. No backward glance, no second thoughts. Just: I have to get out.
She lost her uncle last week.
Today she carries her nephew, Miguel, in her arms. He’s so soft, so tiny, so red. She holds him and she feels him nestling within the crook of her elbows. She gazes at his small round face and as the gaze shifts to his pajamas, her heart freezes:
yellow crabs against a grey background.
Nobody hears the hitch in her throat.
Wax. Her first thought when she sees him through the glass. She stares. She’s supposed to pray in her head but her head says “Wax.” A pearl is pressed between his lips and his eyelids is glued shut. He lies, so, so still.
So, so still.