Four Fantasies After Kissing My Homeboy’s Girlfriend | My Love Life On Telekinesis

Willy Palomo

Willy Palomo is the son of two immigrants from El Salvador. In 2018, he graduated with an MA in Latin American and Caribbean Studies and an MFA in Poetry from Indiana University. In 2017, he received the City of Bloomington Latino Leadership Award and the MLK Building Bridges Graduate Student Award for his work serving undocumented communities in Indiana. He has taught literature, creative writing, and the Poetics of Rap in universities, juvenile detention centers, community centers, and high schools. He has performed his poetry nationally and internationally at the National Poetry Slam, CUPSI, and V Festival Internacional de Poesía Amada Libertad in El Salvador. His book reviews and creative writing have been featured in Best New Poets 2018, Latino Rebels, Antologia de Posguerra, The Wandering Song: Central American Writing in the United States, and more.

Four Fantasies After Kissing My Homeboy’s Girlfriend

I – una canción para mi cachetona 

if there’s anything that makes us

the sour your body sings through 

your eyes teach me how to buoy 

as you thumb up the throat of 

the longing and lenguaje 

snap and flicker between                                                                                       

arms around my neck like a knot 

it’s sweat 

its tears 

our backs 

our añoranza 

our tongues 

our fraenum 

II - una tiraera against my homeboy  

Knuckles rattle my doorframe

                  the way a pulse rattles the neck, 

a fist rattles a face, and a key 

                  cuts a lock. ¿Are you looking 

for someone to blame 

                  for your mistakes? I laugh. 

I almost ask him in Spanish

                  to prove he doesn’t know

mierda. I open the door, ready 

                  to whip the white flag of 

his body. Soon, our shirts 

                  will be a preteen’s dream 

of tear and telenovela. I hit the gym 

                  daily for this cuff 

and hook, so I don’t cry aloud, lose 

                  my breath, sweat or regret 

the sound my name makes 

                  in his begging mouth. 

She’s never there, of course, 

                  never hears me break 

his arm, never hears the whistle 

                  his windpipe makes beneath 

my knee. Her eyes never have 

                  to witness my love shatter 

another man’s bones. Of course, 

                  there’s no victory, no 

consequence after I cry, I’m sorry. 

Lo siento. 

III – a lament for my homeboy 

the knot in the throat

like a cloud of black hair 

he blamed

next, there’s the rope             

that unravels                           

in my palm

the sound my name makes in her mouth 

                       her legs tied around mine 

i have found him here

in the mirror

pale fingers blaming 

as he hangs 

between our hands

no one 

IV – A song I wrote on my mirror 

¿this is why you kissed her right? 

the way joy makes a chain gang
            of your bones & your chest

                        empties whenever you face 

a mirror or mountain
            or mansion & feel an envy 

                        you call hatred you call history 

you call the way his white
            hands siphon butterflies 

                        from her throat alive as 

a hammer pounding salt
            in the desert for the figures 

                        her feet make in sand her lips 

breaking chrysalis against
            your neck as she coughs 

                        another monarch for survival 

its helpless & unshackled
            joy the way her hands 

                        rend the chains from 

your chest undress your
            flesh from the fetters 

                        that make you a man 

My Love Life On Telekinesis

my hands would 

have no excuses

for not being magic 

carpets gliding

over the great wall 

of china or to the tip

of giza, atop s

ome pyramid

in your chest.

how easy it is 

to forget a glass 

midair or fire 

remote controls 

out the window. 

i am a thousand 

times more 

dynamite than 

a match. 

i don’t know

enough about physics. 

ask me

to pass the salt 

& i’ll bring

the pacific ocean.

ask me to turn 

on the stove, 

i’ll light 

the curtains, burn 

the carpet

off your floors.

everyone always t

ires of the forks

flying like darts, 

the still-sticky 

coffee stains 

on the ceiling. 

moving you 

would never be

as satisfying 

as the moments 

we hang

still as childless

swing sets. you 

probably could still 

move my body

effortlessly 

across a room

or country, leave

my wallet, bedsheets, 

& clothes any
angle you please.

i’d slam the door over 

& over

without ever leaving.

i’d throw your bras 

& toothbrushes 

out the window 

only to realize

i called them back 

in my dreams. 

i’ve never been 

anything more

than a mustard seed,

a mountain with 

too many legs

and ankles twisted.

there’s always 

something my mind 

keeps spinning, 

never a thought

that doesn’t move me 

closer to you.

Issue 6.1