- Exiliados
for Monica Sok
We didn't hold typhoons or tropics in our hands. I didn't reach across the table on our first date at Cornelia Street Café. In my humid pockets,
my fists were old tennis balls thrown to the stray dog of love bouncing toward the Hudson down to South Ferry. We didn't hold hands in that cold
October wind, but the waves witnessed our promise to return to my cratered-deforested homeland, and you to your parents', sometime in the future.
No citizenship or some other violence in our countries (separated by the Pacific, tied by the latitude of dragon fruits, tamarinds, mangosteens) was why
we couldn't, and can't, return for now. Then, us in the subway at 2 am, oh the things I dreamt: a kiss to the back of your neck, collarbone, belly-button, there—
to kneel and bow my head, then return to the mole next to your lips and taste your latitude together. Instead, I went home, you touched my cheek,
it was enough. I stood, remembering what it's like to stand on desert dirt wishing stars would fall as rain, on that huge dark country ahead of me. [End Page 130]
Javier Zamora was born in El Salvador and migrated to the US when he was nine. He is a 2016–2018 Wallace Stegner Fellow and holds fellowships from CantoMundo, Colgate University, MacDowell, the National Endowment for the Arts, and Yaddo. The recipient of a 2016 Ruth Lilly/Dorothy Sargent Fellowship and the 2016 Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Award. He has published his poems in Granta, Ploughshares, Poetry, Kenyon Review, the New Republic, and elsewhere. His first collection, Unaccompanied, is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press in 2017.