Maybe We’ll Both Live Again
by Adriana Hernandez
There is a poem that asks
what is left, when we forgive our fathers
and I wonder, have I forgiven you
for living, or for dying?
And I worry, what is left now?
You were made up of tattoos
your skin all soaked with black ink.
The last was the great feathered serpent
lining the length of your back,
to devour the name of my mother
behind your neck.
Then we burned your body.
When you were whole
we couldn’t keep the art
that was a part of you,
will we get to meet the people
that got to take parts of you?
There are stories about you
now that you’re gone.
I’m learning more about you
now that you’re gone.
You told people
that you were Guatemalteco,
proud to be, a man of your word.
They told me, Turtle
made them feel at home.
The pieces we share
are only part of the whole.
You promised to keep visiting
in dreams, sweet sentiments and
fleeting comforts that always leave
me crying in the morning.
Stories and ghosts
can’t fill in a father.
So I bite the habits you had before.
The naked part of my arm is waiting
for that great feathered serpent
to curl its body and imitate
some part of you.