When a narrative isn't adequate, write a poem.

 Small Face

      

Her eyes are slanted inward,

Into her smile of slanted teeth.

You’re crazy, she giggles

In high pitched Spanish, black

Hair hugging a round face creased

with sorrow and experience.

She hugs me from the side, nuzzles

that small face into my breast, beaming

over the barrier of language. That

small face wished more than twice,

more than anything, all her might,

to die in that very moment, life

kicking her around, to the ground,

all over the world. Her voice soars

when she talks about her home,

home in Paraguay, with her five

hijos and a husband who sent

her to work, to make chump change

so they don’t lose the farm. Simple

clothes as gifts hug her body, barely

buying a dress for the boda of her oldest,

she says she’ll just rent it, she doesn’t

know how to shop. Liquid doesnt escape

her ducts without optimistic

inspiration and a smile: “it’s over,

so it’s okay now. Don’t cry.” Fermina

has never seen the city. Terrified

of transport, she grips our arms, fingernails,

out in the big mundo, full of the mujeres

who shoved a knife to her chest

and took her wedding ring and money,

savings lost. She cried when we invited 

her to the tango show, mostly friendless 

here in this lonely city, tourists trekking, 

stomping, parading over

her small face.

 Her homemade empanadas bake

and make the whole house smell

like love, like salt and a dash of pain.

We are the first people, she says, 

to listen to her story.

Fermina, you’re a lover and I’m a runner,

Running to forget about people like you—real

people who feel this life with every pore, every speck

of struggle, sanity, while I run away

from the smile across your face, filled

with more love than I could give if I wished hard

on our stars, shared. Fermina,

teach me to care like you do, drowning

in humanity, swallowing reality

breathing busy but grinning anyways,

giving always, giving me chills,

pouring into me real life, Waking me

from this dream.