a building made me cry
Last night, a building made me cry. I saw it engulfing the sky with its white teeth,
clawing it up with each little squared window, up and up in sharp, ruthless lines.
The houses below instantly surrendered. All the lights were out, and I pictured a
man in blue standing in the hallway of the twenty-second floor,
His flashlight barely illuminated a fraction of the hollow black. Below the streetlights,
I collapsed. I grabbed two chunks of mud between my fingers, and whined, holding the
earth below me so tight, as though, in doing so, I could prevent the clouds from
I dreamt about my mother. I saw her pregnant. I saw her smiling. I stood and stared
as the car cut her in half. I stood and stared at her lifeless body resting over hot
Last night, I carried a heavy name in the pocket of my olive-green jacket.
It was the name of a stranger who led me into a room lit with blood, filled with men,
and asked me to fuck him while the others watched.
I still don’t know the name of the man who owned the hand that fingered me.
I don’t even know his face. All I know is the face of the man in the leather swing,
wrapped in chains. All I know is the shape of his dick. All I know is that I wasn’t
supposed to be there. All I know is that I didn’t want this to happen.
Andrés Hernández is a student at the Autonomous University of Baja California, where he studies Translation and Interpretation of Languages. His work has appeared in WorldLink, Zeta, Linotipia.org, and several other fine publications. He recently presented his first collection of poems, Terapia (Saturno Editorial, 2017), at the Northern Literature Festival (FELINO) in Tijuana, Mexico.