andrea salvador

The Girl I Meet in the Rice Fields Teaches Me to Disappear

Feet fighting the pull of mud, it’s easy to get
frustrated. If you cry in this part of the city,
your screams are silence. I think it’s peace -
full, whole, blessedly untainted. Anyplace
else knows the alluring warmth of vanity.

This is why I go to the rice fields often: to look
for her. She’s the culprit behind our cracked
mirrors, who drew shards over in screeches.
That was the last time she spoke. Treading
the paddies, I glimpse pieces of broken glass.

There was a riot in the city the day after,
shock snapping the static. My own mother
screamed because her face was warped, took
me two whole hours to remind her she wasn’t
ugly. My words were just the city’s two cents

Cashed in by fruitless tongues until they lost 
meaning. This is why I need to find the girl:
she can teach me a new vocabulary. I want
my own words to light up a trail that sparks
then fizzles, glittering like mysterious dying stars.

I find her kneeling against a drying husk, coaxing
it back to life. It doesn’t listen; many things here
don’t, but she hears me. I tell her she can work
on me instead, having been dead for a number
of years I can’t count but can’t seem to forget.

It’s easy, she promises, clasping my protest
-ing hands. They’re in steeples, and she bends
each finger down until they lay flat. Just follow
my lead, and nothing will be left in your
wake. I know she is telling the truth.