Papa, I do not know your sacrifices I only know the pot belly from liquor, the balding head from age The stern voice that tells me to keep the flashlight still, while your hands are kept occupied by tools I never learned the names of The same heavy hands that left permanent fingerprints on my
but we learn that love comeswhen the body splits open andthe words are reeled from the tongue. love knocks in the sharing of the space,in the fluttering of the pages,and in the moving of a twenty-peso penuntil we shed our skins and our fingerscurl into half-formed sentences. love, as we come to realize,can mean something