By May, I have lost the life in my eyes, from the wars of late-night work-study,
essays due earlier than 11:59pm,
and belly bugs
hundreds of miles away
from where there is
good chicken soup
and Mamí is on the dock,
wavering on crumbling,
concrete stairs to capital
and there are camellias, again
and choked sobs under sun-hats, again
and there is that question, again
"Why did you shave down
your hair like that?"