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by Oswaldo Vargas
Oswaldo Vargas is a former farmworker and graduate of the University of California - Davis where he studied history, human rights and Jewish studies. Prior publications include Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color, The Louisville Review, and the upcoming Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century anthology. He lives in Sacramento, California.
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Before the Pouring Out
I already know the name of the boy
who will hold my urn
at the edge of Point Reyes.
He'll stumble on the rocks,
wonder out loud
why he chose these shoes.
They will still do, for this procession of one.
At the speed of honey,
he'll go.
Reyes is Spanish for "kings"
I never let him forget it when we visited here.
He never stopped vowing
to throw me over.
Now, he can
with the Pacific as a backdrop
and no signal to stream it.
He will count the seagulls overhead
that bear witness,
note the sky's burgundy streaks
that unfurl and flap for dusks.
He will remember all of this
before he walks back to the car, carrying less.
I wonder how many fistfuls of me
he will make.
Maybe I'll get to stow away under his nails.
© 2020 West Trade Review
