The La Moneda Palace bombing, July 1986

It gets dark earlier and you’re
a tear falling into me slowly.
Through the window a burrowing
owl calls. I am an invasive
species and I have adapted
quickly. My parents wanted English
first in my life, and my father’s Spanish
passed down only in snippets. As a kid,
I never got to know much
about my grandparents, once a year
a 15-hour overnight flight with two stops,
summer when we left, winter
when we got there. Quiet rooms
with polished silver, TV
I couldn’t understand. How they loved
my parents.

The fog horn is dutifully calling,
the air cold and wet. I draw my finger
along your back, like wiping
cream from the edge of the bowl.
I want to shiver
into you, lover, soft and white
like bread warm in the hand.
So many times we’ve lain here, tangled
on the couch. Swirling in the vertigo
of arousal, your musician’s fingers playing me,
your legs pressing into me.

How my parents would have loved
you. My grandmother liked to tell me
I would find a woman to make me
happy someday. I spent hours
homesick and lovelorn on her balcony, watching the city
walk home from work, giving wide berths
to Carabineros holding submachine guns.
The day the bomb blast, blocks away,
startled me into knocking over
the tea tray, that burst of adrenaline,
much like, years later, divorced
and lost, my heart would catch
the first time we kissed. The maid
shouting bajarse, bajarse while I swayed,
unsure what she meant, transfixed
by the tea cups rattling to a stop.

This poem appeared in Pigeon Pages in July 2023