CONFIRMATION
Aircon crickets through the night
outside my parents’ bedroom
since brother and I are not allowed AC
given the dangers of cold air to children.
I can’t sleep under my polyester
blanket; wet back stuck to cotton
sheets fused to a mattress cover
that protects my asthma from dust.
There is no storm tonight
but the patio still twinkles
a message in the on and offs
of a broken fluorescent corralling moths
and clumsy caculos that thump
the jalousie window. I try to close
my eyes to a dream where
I dress in a white robe, a rapier
in my hand, ready to fight Sir
Drake’s men but it is too hot
and I wake up to a voice
calling me in a Cuban accent.
In the door frame, a man’s familiar shape
visible like a spiderweb after rain.
His hands extend out, palms stacked
as if to beg for the eucharist, perhaps
to try to catch the holy spirit. I call
my brother but he sleeps.
Paralised, I am unable to hide
under the blanket, forced to watch
Tío Alberto who seems to understand
when I ask why he is not dead
– it should be a month now.
He opens his mouth, inside
three fireflies hover before
they jet towards me, warning
with their flashes not to tell anyone
about his resurrection.
José Buera is a writer from the Dominican Republic. An alumni of the London Library’s Emerging Writers Programme, his poetry appears in Anthropocene, F(r)iction, Konch, Magma, Propel, Wasafiri and elsewhere. José is the founder and curator of Empanada Poetry Salon, a bimonthly gathering of diaspora poets amidst their foods.