John A. Nieves
Hi. You were always place—a high smudge
of color near the sconce or a dusty ledge
where the books went. I would visit you
when the weather was right, when new
clouds weren't massing over your tiny
terrain. There were faded spots on the carpet
where you never manifested, where the sun pried
color back into the sky. You hadn't been there yet,
hadn't scraped yourself off the side of the road
and left your little body in the shocks of red
and blue light. Back then you could roll
a rubber band into an ant-sized wad, fold
photos into footballs for flicking through
finger goals. We never went to church. So
when they put that cross in the grass that wore
you last, I was sure it wasn't for the you who moved
but you as location, as the warm spot you meteored
into the couch, the divot by my front door your heels chewed.