wildscape. literary journal

pov: you’re playing unpacking on the switch and somehow you become the protagonist
by Veronica Berry-Pérez

level 1: moving out (mental prep)

in my childhood home,
i’m taping up a box of prayers
before a bowl of mami’s arroz con habichuelas.
our fathers and hail marys
close doors to the closet,
but when i ask god about the crosswalk
crack in my spine in free verse,
pablo picasso comes knocking,
asks if i want the door
cracked along with my abstract pain.

level 2: welcome home (my brain still calls me “visitor”)

my sunny day melts
the sticky side of the tape.
i peel it from dusty cardboard
strips clinging to the windowpanes,
make murky what was once clear:
the view outside,
where orb weavers crochet messages
between the trees on the lawn of level 1,
out past a mountain of graves.
did those souls pray before
they swirled into the sky?

level 3: the master bedroom (where stories are told)

from 1, to 2, and now in level 3
a flood of apologies surges,
the only litany i offer up these days.
sun evaporates the water
where i float with the skeleton i kept
hidden in my closet		    the one in masc drag
who reminds me i didn’t kiss Mami goodbye.
i saw the pipes in His grip,
knew He’d started the flood.
His skull falls off the windowsill, shatters far below.
i’m floating, here and somewhere else,
knowing i can’t bear being named
like being holy is my cross to carry
yet still i pray, somewhere,
long live the King

about the author // Veronica Berry-Pérez