to Nica

some say that you’re a country
made up of old men who sell kites
outside of car windows,
at stoplights
for 45 cords.
but you aren’t those men.
you are the kites.

you are millions of patterns -
four-figured shapes in the dust
of the city dump,
of crowded streets
and inside tin-shacks along rural green hills.
you see horizons begging you into the air.
you have strings tied to the ground.

but soon, all the stillness will disappear.
the world will not keep you
with her broken hands,
will not clasp you between her thumb
of mud and her index finger of poverty.

you’ll be free...

…and the clouds will be grazed with
a million patterns
as you take to the wind.

it’s happening today,
even now
as a child feels the tickle of air
on the soft soles of their feet
and pushes up.

(and in them,
all your darkness is redeemed.
and in them,
the sky is expanding with color)

as for now, we’re together and busy-
off catching this breeze.