And what if I’m not more than any of this?

by JOE JIMÉNEZ

Once, I saw a great gar tear apart a gull.
Yes, my abuelo bottled his fat knuckles
about my neck,
my boythin chin—
said, “Look.”

The sound sun makes when it rises can be heard
if I listen with brown skin I no longer speak,
which is a flare gun,

a codex spared by God.

After, the gull wing floated in the dark river.
A little sailboat.

A little smoke.
A sigh doped-up with patience, dropped
from the sky.

All day, I can reach for that gull.
All year. It won’t mean
I want to leave the river behind.

It won’t mean I can’t kneel for fruits that kiss earth.
Offer them to satisfy order, to defy.

Most days, I don’t mind
laying my blown boybones down in the mud
on the shore
near the sedge
under sun.

I only hope I keep enough good teeth.
I just hope someone, somewhere
remembers

shadows also deserve to eat.