Verano

We’re racing our bikes
Through the neighborhood. 
The wind is soft and whispering
Through the trees above us, 
Where we look into the spaces 
Between the leaves and see shades of blue
We’ll never see again.
The road is cracked
And crooked,
Our tires rolling over the gaps in the pavement,
Seats hitting our groins and making 
Our bodies vibrate like the buzz 
Of the million mosquitoes 
Flying next to us,
Thirsty for our blood.
Folks look out from their homes,
Their hands wet from their warm beers.
The distance between us and
Their gaze is a silent reminder that we’re
Too young, too brown, too here.
In some ways we long to be the bikes,
Rusted to hell and tires so flat
They scrape into the ground
Some mark of the metal inside them.
In some ways we are the sidewalk,
Footprints heavy on our faces,
Stuck still as winters ride through us
And the cold air cracks us open.
In some ways
We long to be heat,
To flash into a trail of sparks 
In the summer air,
And float into the light around you,
To slip past your fingers, your crystal doors,
Glass borders meant to keep us out,
And blind your eyes like
Suns.