by Ashley Porras
I was told you’d use your hands./ I was told Reason, and thumbs/ were our great advances.
Now --/ after the borders/ of pink and white meet the telephone/ wire/ pylons -- you lace
your arms./ In sleep/ you use your hands./ In sleep we are/ naming/ our kin. Holding them, and/ raising them up/ above our shoulders./ In sleep/ lavender and grey are still/ distinguishable promises./ Today, horizon/ the color of/ mud/ and the earth, is/ mugged proving/ less/ crustaceous than before./ I want you to/ touch me (here). I want you/ to use/ your hands. I want/
to own/ everyone/ who’s ever held me./ I want the people/ who have held me/ to wish/ I were real./ I still need you/ to keep/ all my secrets. In/ the morning, your Hebrew/ name/ metastasizes/ throughout the diurnal,/ into pale windows on Third/ St., the honeydews at St. Paul’s, bike/ racks on Columbia, and the/ hollow restaurants of Kendall./ The memory/ games we’d play./ I could never/ keep them/ straight. Your hands,/ the light/ wakes me. I already know/ what’s going to kill me/ is terribly /deep/ inside me./ I still need you. In my sleep/ I am/ on my way/ to some
Ashley Porras is a Latinx poet and was raised in Bethany, OK. She lives in Cambridge, MA where she is a researcher using CRISPR to gene edit immune cells to attack cancer cells specifically. Her poetry can be found, or is forthcoming, in The Adroit Journal, SWWIM Everyday, and Cimarron Review. She is the daughter of immigrants and an immigrant herself.