Diaspora Sonnet 42
BY OLIVER DE LA PAZ
I close the shutters, leave a wink
of light to keep from burning down
my paper house. The seams are creased.
I move about in my tattered plight
slowly. Elbow on the table, skin puckered
makes a kissing sound as I lift my arm
to shade my eyes from beams cutting through.
This home is not the interior I had wanted.
Slowly baking air at noontime, despite
my insistence on shadow—I am hot
in the shade of my dwelling. There are dogs
outside and I hear them speaking their
breathy language. Their humid speech.
Their deliberations about staying or going.