an image of you crossed my mind
before i left miami.
it was us, five years ago.
you rested your head in my arms.
i held your face like a baby,
and me the mother figure you always longed for,
we were at drum circle, sinking
at the beach on 93rd street and collins avenue.
you were looking up at me and i smiled down to you.
it was the only picture we ever took together,
we were beautiful.
then, i saw the image of you and me, no longer an ‘us,’ three years ago.
sneaky like the spanish conquistadores that stained your taino blood white,
you excused yourself to the bathroom to call her.
i knew that in the innermost sections of that bathroom stall,
your words bounced
walls at flanigan’s.
you probably said something like,
goodnight baby, i’m out with the guys after work.
i’ll be home in a few hours.
she would never imagine us
on the hood of your car that was parked
on the roof of the abandoned parking garage,
on 197th street and hallandale beach blvd,
where my father taught me to drive.
we didn’t talk for a few weeks.
you probably felt guilty.
thanksgiving day, she tagged you in a facebook photo.
it was a sonogram,
in it the image of a five-month old baby girl,
your baby girl.
i congratulated you in a text.
i still don’t know why you thanked me so
maybe she was reading over your shoulder.
maybe you forgot the way i fit into your arms that night,
maybe you forgot the way i held you five years ago.
wish you would’ve told me that before we met up two weeks ago.
you told me i made it all up.
the hood of your car,
the parking garage,
with my drinks at flanigan’s.
now, i’m grateful for that
pulled your deepest anchors out from inside of me,
decolonized the most indigenous parts of Me.