You said bad men waited inside your mouth, which meant a fire was catching. We drove toward a cloud of smoke that rose above the city. In the mirror, I saw the wide belt strapped across your chest, and on the radio, men stormed the gates in another country. I do love you, you said, looking out. The window held the sun flatly. I held my breath. The brush had not been cleared in weeks, and the mountain prepared to burn.
My son wants to know
his name. What does he look like? What does
he like? My son swims
four days a week. When my son swims
underwater, he glides
between strokes. When he glides underwater, he is
an arrow aimed
at a wall. Four days a week, his coach says,
coming up for air.
My father had blue eyes, blonde hair,
though mine are brown.
My father could not speak
Spanish and wondered, How can you love
another man? We rarely touched.
When my son
is counting, I count
with him. I say, I am
your father, too. 1…2…