Whatever I Did After Has Not Happened Yet

at a certain time the kitten stopped moving I wanted to see if it would burn
   ​  rain like cane fields when they’re scorched after harvesting

through the phone Abuelita remembers the black kitten I threw in the fire
     still trying to crawl out that ash isn’t snow Abuelo said shirtless

I picked up a mound in my hand if I look back at my front door
   ​  barefoot kids in the street try catching the flakes on their tongues

come visit us they say nextyearnextyear I’ll try again
   ​  dust covers the roof my toys my hair my expired work permit burns

black the sky it is march again & again there’s no wind
   ​  Abuelita asks us to send a bag of autumn leaves she wants to keep

in a book the color so pretty interesting what if there’s no wind
   ​  I ask while acid at Joshua Tree camping the slight movements

of the twigs of the ocotillo sound like mice deep in their burrows
   ​  with the silence of only this pen writing the only words I can hear

hella yellow now I’m in a similar dirt to Abuelita’s yellow but here there’s healing
   ​  the cold the sky the same I’m staring at clouds the same

thought of then now again I could this could be the very cloud
   ​  the very dirt but this time I’m happy yes I can be I’m smiling

More Poems by Javier Zamora