Dahlia Aguilar

I REMEMBER THE SILENCE

it was loud. inside me. around me. i was saying that i loved you, but no words came out. instead i
said my period is late and i may be pregnant with someone else's baby or yours. i can't tell. you
and i didn't belong to each other. we belonged to no one. still, i knew it would hurt. your silence
confirmed it. until finally– i don't believe in abortion but you can't have this baby blurted itself
out of your mouth. your eyes and nose scrunched like whenever you said something distasteful
even to yourself. i knew you had lovers of your own.  the six foot african beauty who only came
to you drunk after midnight. your white lover in new york–  white chicks do have asses, i
remember you said. when it wasn’t them, it was us – stairways, hotel rooms, arriving separately,
so no one would know. our first silence. i was and wasn't surprised how this managed to offend
you. then came, careless and how could you, and i trusted you. i wanted to say i hate you, but no
words came out. only my heart– a break, my face– a break, my hands shaking. the raven’s neon
lights refract off the cavern walls, off the wet of my face, the sweat of your face. i cried so hard
my nose ran. people saw us but didn't care because that's how punk rock the raven was. last call
soon, it occurred to me, you would never read me rita dove in bed again or bring me breakfast
without asking or call me high to talk about pedagogy and history as if they were porn, to talk
praxis then tell me how wet i am. i learned to walk past you in the halls. all the kids screaming
and carrying on. 

DOUBLE VISION

one day i stop caring which father sits in my father’s place/ far right/ velour countryside sofa/
cabin/ forest/ flowers/ colonial revival

which man stares back at me in the darkness of cigarette fog/ which father forgets to open
windows/ crack the door

sometimes it’s him/ beat after a long day laying cable/ just quiet/ just tired/ a Marlboro/ before he
gets dinner underway/ maybe chile colorado/ maybe carnitas 

sometimes the father wears his lonely silhouette/ the ghost/ Texas Ranger hit and ran/ armed gas
station attendant fired over a broken dipstick/ Agent Orange 

the ghost watches Hamburger Hill on repeat and Platoon/ remains of a man they tried to kill/ but
he was already dead

today the ghost i look upon does not look back/ the ghost does not make dinner/ the ghost is not
my father/ turn around

cable-spool coffee table burns as ashtray watches idly/ cigarettes lose their balance off the edge’s
indentation/ self-extinguish/ char/ scorch the lacquer/ laid by his hand

IXCHEL

Artemis. No, Aranyani. No, Tonantzín. No, Ixchel. Mistress supreme. When she isn’t feeding the
dogs, or brushing the cats, she is helping her lover eat.

They lean in, look upon the same recipe. Inhale the same pool of air as they study text. Cleanse
together. 

The proximity of solving the same puzzle together. What they take on their tongues. What
sacrifice to share.

Tell me who she loves. She’ll tell you how far into her body her lover has reached.  Finds her
breath beyond lungs. Inflates the heart. Dizzies the head, dwells tracheal like mourning.

Our queen still mourns. The time wasted. Not living. Not living like the river of water that
springs up on the land. El borbollón. Terreno alcatraz. Terreno burros. Terreno tierno. Burros
tiernos.

Her lover restrains the dogs, so she can watch her feed them the guayabas. Gathered in her
blouse pulling the neckline to reveal trompetas de angel. 

Food grows year round. Banano. Mango. Aguacate. Dulce y llena.
Not touch. Not body parts. Just this terrain. New terrain. 

When the queen leaves the room, lover brags about how she owns the town and hearts in it. 
Eyes cast joy upon the memory. The first time I’ve seen her smile. In awe of her reach.

Costumes. Puppets. Children. Floats and so many flowers. Remembering as though she were not
in the next room.

Tamarindo and cottonwood herald their arrival. Succulents grace the entryway of the home they
share.  Mountains clear from every view.