By Valeria Rivadeneira 

You claim:
That you are clearest
When the sun licks the backs of your hands
And the daylight
Scales up your arms
To seep into the chasms
Of your languid shoulders.

What you don’t know
Is that you’ve never been more transparent
Than when your clouded inner palms
Throbbed with the negligence and soothed with the moisture
Of an August night in San Antonio.

What you don’t know
Is that you fell asleep before the sun set
And that when I twined my hand through yours,
You held it there ‘till morning.