Sergio Ortiz
this is my story
and place of birth
a wheelchair
a body wrapped in a sack
a childhood jerked around
like an unwarranted curse
and the stubborn useless desire
for a pair of tailored hands
climbing up my thighs
You, in my gravest hour,
perfumed with silence—what images
caused your fruit to fall?
 You left me shooting
at non-existent stars.
Nothing ever removed the water
you gradually painted on my lips,
no theatres, nightclubs, tuxedos.
Not even jetliners
or churches.