Don't Go Away
I don't want you to leave.
Not because of any fear that chills my heart:
because you are dressed up,
Papá with hair combed back, Mamá in flowers and gold,
going out together, and I am eight years old,
old enough to come too.
Tina from next door
takes my hands, says don't fuss, come on,
don't be a baby. For an hour I sulk,
angry at her and you.
Asleep by nine,
the next thing I know is a cold morning:
no Mamá to wake me up.
Tina on the couch crying like a baby,
and men in the kitchen who are not my father
say come here, son.
They tell me about cars
and how it rained last night
and people in bars
and hospitals, and Tina from next door
gets tissues and tells me about God and angels.
And I, eight years old,
too old to cry, am crying, insisting
I didn't want you to leave.