My grandmother irons my shirts in the mornings.
It is slow, but sure.
No detail escapes her, neither corners nor pockets nor creases.
Steam rises and the iron spits its discomfort.
She irons my shirts, and no detail escapes her.
‘Such a handsome boy’ she says when I put them on. Bonito, bonito. She adds the masculine ending
to the feminine word and I have never been more seen.
The sun rises, collars and buttons cling to me.
The basketball boys play outside and I have been stolen from.
They are tall and strong. They are strong and loud. They are tall and strong and loud.
The ball bounces, they bounce, each a blow to my ribs.
I am 10 floors up and I can feel the sweat and the shouting and the summer.
Summer is hot and tight. It seeps into my lungs, into my skin, into my hair.
What kind of boy am I? Steam rises within me;
if only my grandmother could use her precision to see me–to save me–
to iron out the rise of my chest.
