Elegy for the Four Chambers of my Heart
I'm always looking for a mirror
with a family inside it.
If a mirror breaks which shard
is the family?
There are so many
ways to hold yourself
hostage I'm still learning
to love
my captor.
When You Tell Me You've Grown Afraid
of the dark, it busts every lit bulb
inside me. Please —
put a flashlight in my mouth, Mom.
I will thin
my cheeks for you.
Let me light the way.
A River Is A Body Running
The first time I found my brother
overdosed, he looked holy. A thing
not to be touched. Yellow halo of last
night's dinner. His skin, blanched blue
fresco. Patron Saint of Smack. A cop,
flustered tugged up his shorts, plunged
a needle into a pale thigh. He hissed
awake like a soda can. The paramedic
spoke softly in his ear like a lover,
asked him what color yellow and red
make. What is the difference between
a lake and a river? In the corner
I whittle that used syringe into
an instrument only I can play.
Elegy for the Four Chambers of My Mother's Heart
This is an elegy and believe me, it will end
within the small walls of your townhome.
And because I am selfish it ends with your
words and a memory of just you and me
standing above your kitchen sink, pouring
water into an ice cube tray. You tell me
to watch as the water fills up one corner,
then overflows into every empty square.
This, you say, this is how I love you.
_______________________________
Steven Espada Dawson
Late to the Search Party
Scribner 2025
