Copihue Poetry

It’s night and I stand
in the grass looking up—

the stars like a handful
of glitters thrown

by a willful child
waiting for it to shower.

When I am particularly
sad or lonely,

I count the names
of all I ever loved

and few that loved me
back. Once, I slept

with a boy who dreamed
of having a wedding

in a graveyard
and when I asked why,

he replied that if not
the living, then the dead

will be his attendees.
See, what I mean

when I say I carry
not only my own grief

but grief of all I ever put
my mouth to.

On days like these,
I want love as light

as leaves or feathers
on still water.

Because for how long
one can hold this sky

of grievance—
this needless weight,

​

how long before
someone says,
 

brother! let me

carry it for you.