My father has a dark side back in 2006
in a Tex-Mex border city seeing the stars,
He bought a telescope to see beyond
our neighbors’ windows curtains.
I glance at the window from my bedroom
I notice him on our rooftop
observing her.
My father,
watching her, stubborn, smokes
a Mexican cigarette without the filter
his Faros turns to ash between
burning his fingers,
My father
immediately falls—but in love.
He lights another
face buried in his cupped hands
I waited for you, naked before my eyes,
Everywhere I turn,
around & around, where she is?
(I believe I’ve sprained my neck)
before she puts on her pajamas. If I can
only see the far-flung vulnerable window
pouring forth with light from her light bulb
So big, so beautiful, he murmurs.
I wish I had a chance to see her too.
He sets fires again
& I steal a glimpse, peering into
the eyepiece: All the “American” flags
on the moon are now white. Such as
the white flags oscillating on top of
the Brooklyn Bridge that day.
Then I ask my father,
has peace colonized the moon?
he observing her in silence. How is
that is easier to go to the moon
than to cross the border or jump to
the neighbors backyard?
I asked my father.
Sadly, in her solitude. She smiles at us.
My father is in love with the moon.



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