Some believe

A man has three souls,

a presence in shadow,

a reflection in water and

a spirit in the pupil of the eye

remaining after death.

I speak of

machineal, a tropical tree with

seductive green leaves,

spilling milk when split-

poison to the touch,

forbidden love.

I speak of

the church in San Juan

the crypt heavy with mold

one floor below the cross,

where I touched

the foot of Christ,

the only remains

of a storm-wrecked ship,

a survivor. Aren’t we

all survivors?

I speak of

letting go the secrets

tied neatly, tucked in corners,

stuffed below the surface.

Let my eyes become

the mirror of your face.

Let the fire in your eyes

burn the secrets of my heart.