A summer visiting family in Barcelona is when I discovered who I would be before I was ready.
I was 15.
Vapid and unaware.
But driven by the Sandman’s dust hanging over my head.
And you must have sensed that Tio because you asked me
in what few words I could understand what I wanted to do,
and “Yo quiero escribir poemas” rolled off my tongue
because I was struggling to find the words
that could explain how I wanted to give birth
to pirates and and disease and cannibals
and build paper homes for my spawn
nailed together by an indestructible force
flowing from my hand.
And because, behind you,
there was a clean, white book
standing up on the table that entranced me
with giant, capital letters
embracing its cover: