Jacob Aplaca: Then It Comes True
barefoot
sun beats from an Ewa sky and I am eleven—no longer ten—when
I come of age listening to
the little boy with no teeth tell me I have no friends because they
saw something in me and they hate it
I am mahu they say and I can’t cry because then it comes true and
so he runs away through red-dirt-dusted roads
runs away from me barefoot like all the others whose feet are dyed that
deep reddish-brown of Ewa dust
while I nurse rubber slippers on soft feet and look to where those
others stand down the road staring at me through
heat waves rising and dissipating as I lurk there circling the edges of
childhood’s death throes until at last
my desperation confuses itself with hope and for the first time I think
I know what I have to do
so I kick those slippers from my soft feet with awkward pomp and
watch their faces crack with half-smiles
or those glimpses of the something else I want so bad and I run to
them faster than they run away from me
but learn between overconfident steps what it means to expect too much
when my toe runs hard into the asphalt
and I fall to a ground that pulls blood out from fleshy skin
and tears from eyes suddenly tipped
upward towards the whiteness of a sky that tells me nothing more can be done
that all is settled and there is nothing to say
Originally from Oahu, Hawaii, Jacob Aplaca now lives in New York City where he teaches at Hunter College and pursues a PhD in English Literature at the CUNY Graduate Center. His poetry has appeared in PANK Magazine and Impossible Archetype.