By José Enrique Medina
They lock you in your bedroom. You escape
to the snowy scene. Wind
shakes snow-bowed boughs & stirs
crystal chimes. Here, your father’s fingers,
stinking of cigarettes, will never touch
your knee. Here, your mother, calling you
faggot, will never find your ear. Besides,
you are not alone in this hoarse forest.
The wind shifts and readjusts
its scarf among branches.
You came here, not to drink
beauty—not even to avoid your papa’s
stink—but rather, if it’s possible, at least
an instant, to glimpse the back
of the old fisherman, pole on his
shoulder, who is always
moving. You sense him
walking among junipers. He is the echo
of the wind. He makes you breathe
winter, filling your lungs
with health and peace. Out
of the blue,
he begins to sing
in a strange language,
unfreezing the rivers
making the bobbing ice return the light.
José Enrique Medina earned his BA in English from Cornell University. He writes poems, short stories and novels. His work has appeared in The Burnside Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, Reed Magazine, and other publications. When he is not writing, he enjoys playing with his baby chicks, bunnies and piglets on his farm in Whittier, California.