By Jonas Gomez Tijerino
I had a dream I was a science communicator.
I traded my papayas and banana
leaves
for quasars
and robitussin
and there I sat
at my desk—black and white—longing
for pink and green, cuffed to
“the cat is gray,”
not the color of concrete
when it rains
nor the color of a muddy
creek,
just gray.
I had a dream Michelle Obama was my tia.
All my life she told me when they go low,
we go high, but I went low
and lower
and lower
and lower
until I
sank past Styx.
And there I waited
for someone to come to the rescue,
for Michelle to come to my rescue,
but she couldn’t find me.
When I made my way back, I learned
she hadn’t noticed
I was gone.
I had a dream I was a man.
I looked in the mirror and saw
a chiseled chin, full beard (eight-inch growth),
the nose of a Greek God
Miskito God,
dark, bronze skin,
eyebrows sharper than
frozen rain drops,
20/20 vision,
and a fade
with a three-inch curl
on top.
I looked in the mirror and huffed
I am Man.
But I peeked a gray hair,
and I plucked it.
I peeked a pimple, I popped it.
Some dirt, I wiped it.
ScratchAndClawAndPopAndShave
ScratchAndClawAndPopAndShave
and wipe
and clean
and I looked in the mirror
and there was me
and I thought
More?