At Night My Body Waits
It’s winter outside, sharp
tree branches scratch
my window, I can hear
the sound of a train
passing. My uncle slips
into my bed and wraps his
hands around my boy body. Tightly
he cups my moon face, and
says, I’m not going to hurt you.
I lie in bed and I think
of my brother and cousins:
Do you keep his little secret too?
My voice underneath the blankets
Grows smaller as his hands feed
off my body. At night, I wake up
to a train in the distance.
At dinner, I see my uncle
in the man sitting next to me
his body asking for more space
as his arm sits on my left leg
adding more weight than
what I already carry.
I become small again
laugh awkwardly.
The man at dinner
tells me to smile more.
In those words I remember
my uncle and I want to yell
rot in hell motherfucker
but the man is not him.
After dinner, I play back
the encounter, I ask myself if what
was underneath my clothes tempted
him like it tempted my uncle to
touch me underneath the blankets.
I know I didn’t lead my uncle to
touch me underneath blankets but
maybe that’s why I sleep naked at
night waiting for my uncle to show up again
in my bed telling me to quiet down as
he puts the hand with which he’d high five me
over my mouth.
When I first came out, mamá asked
if my uncle touched me.
I looked her in the eyes, shook
my head, and I swallowed my uncle
whole again.
Tonight winter comes gently and
in the distance the sound of trains.
I lie naked in bed. My own hands
tempted to touch my body
all the way.
For My Queer Ancestors
Somewhere across the border,
beyond the desert,
beyond cerros,
my family history
is erased each day.
But I only know them by name:
Federico
Elvira
Antonio
Magdalena
Maybe you, too, held
hands with a boy like you
or a girl like you?
Matheo
Griselda
Luis
Zoraida
To take a leap,
means sometimes losing your family:
Gustavo
Micaela
Angel
Esmeralda
If I lose them I will ask
you to help me find myself,
Arnulfo
Esperanza
Luis Mario
Marisol
If you can read this
I’m losing myself.
In Mexico, l ask my
grandfather if anyone in
our family is gay
he says, in nuestra sangre
there aren’t any of them,
And I say:
Tomas
Francis
Juan Jośe
But he walks away.
Saúl Hernández is a queer writer from San Antonio, TX. He was raised by undocumented parents and as a Jehovah Witness. Saúl has a MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Texas at El Paso. He’s been featured on the radio show Words On a Wire, where he discussed gender roles and read a poem titled “Tortillas.” He’s the former Director for Barrio Writers at Borderlands; a writing workshop for the youth to learn, craft, and perform their work, as well as be published in a yearly anthology by SFA Press. He's a semi-finalists for the 2018 Francine Ringold Award for New Writers, Nimrod Literary Journal, and a quarter-finalist for The Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, Nimrod Literary Journal. His work has been featured in Rio Grande Review, Brunch Club in Association with Hello Mr. and Adelaid Literary Magazine. His work focuses on the dangers of existing and being a threat to oneself. He teaches Advance Placement Language and Composition at a high school.
Photo by SubodhBharati on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND