by Sergio Brito
Hermanito
And I held you;
For the first time
in childhood arms
unfamiliar with the weight they carried.
Your eyes: days old
scanned this new world,
meeting mine:
years old.
My last moment / Our first moment:
Unification.
In the backyard, the tree our parents planted bears its fruit.
Straining my small body,
I pick two and place one in your hands,
teach you to peel and to spit out the seeds.
Together,
in the tree’s merciful shade
we savor the sweetness of the fruit:
Unburdened
para ti, Mama
A childhood of plasma; in transit.
If I had wings, I’d fly towards incineration;
so that a gust of wind might guide my ashes into your lungs:
Exhale.
And I’d no longer cut my hands on thorns of bougainvillea bushes.
The years passed us by quickly.
How many years?
Millions and billions,
But only one.
What were the last words you spoke to me?
Perhaps you didn’t, I choose not to misremember them.
Your last words were, “_______.”
And mine, were, “Thank you.”
Untitled #16
Every line: a confession,
of a disembodied guilt,
that persists,
and persists,
and persists,
without relenting.
Maybe;
maybe.
Soaking in the rattlesnake’s venom
I dissolve
my skin.
How many choices must be made
before my epiphany:
These words, nothing
more than useless bloodletting
to expel a virus that does not
exist.
Maybe;
maybe.
It’s ingratitude,
I know it is.
Maybe,
alienation has made me irresponsible.
Maybe,
the weight of responsibility
is the force that holds my
body in place.
Parse through every word, every admission, every thought tamed and put to paper.
Who will make sense of it? of these attempts at prayer, of these attempts to deliver myself from the decadence of self-loathing?
Deep in the night of an indigo desert, a child is born to an immigrant mother and an immigrant father. They toil, and toil, and toil, until their love withers away in the harsh terrain of a hostile valley. Still, they continue, fueled by the necessity that latches onto love, never softening its hold. And when their spent bodies collapse, a child emerges from the rubble.
Yet,
in spite of their sacrifice, that child spends its life running.
Maybe;
maybe.
La vida es un temblor violento: que comienza y se acaba de repente,
y sin aviso.
****
Sergio is originally from the Coachella Valley and now lives in LA. Find his other work in BRUISER, Burial Mag, Latine Lit and others. Follow him on Twitter:@Bskergio