He waits for me, standing behind
A waist-high white picket fence
And muted years of a feigned identity.
His parents have thrown him out and
He has nowhere to go, in a machismo world,
But he hears the chimes of the church bells
Bleeding out of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
He crosses himself, says “Amen” and I find
Him there, angry and sad. He vows his love,
not just for now, Por todo tiempo.
He is baby faced, Latin, enigmatic.
His mouth is sensual, full and he
Drinks books of Neruda and Lorca and
The words around him and he gives them
Back to me, not spoken, but kissed.
I am embraced by his delicate grace
That, for a boy of our age, is rare.
I am in awe each time he turns to me
And his dark eyes flash with the fever
Of those who are in search of Heaven.
We plot and we plan to run away
Because everywhere that we look
We cannot find an idol. So we listen
To music to soothe our search
And we are convinced that we will
Survive the agony of our secret affair.
We are sixteen. We are best friends.
We are in constant search of a better
World. This one is cruel and unkind to us
And will not permit us to dance.
Years later, when he his away from me,
He refuses to marry a woman and he is
Disowned by his family, friends and fears.
I think of him constantly as I endure the
Endless search for another sure thing.
But in my absence, he takes his own life.
When I hear the news, I remember the music,
The warmth of his palm, against my cheek
And the gentle sway of the night’s care
And I dance with him. Now, I am reminded of him
By every song. Every kiss. And every poem.
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