Pact

Pact read by Jonathan Moya

I make a pact with my younger other self,
           my familiar in the crosswalk,   
                 the boy staring back
                not longing to be me,

wondering where all that nice black hair went
                in our shadowed time
                and unwanted trusts,
           vows not to be our parents
           and just our mirrored selves.
 
          In spite of me/to spite me
                   he will just go on. 
          I will be good despite him-
   four feet in height, four feet of space,
             the railing between us.

                 He’ll spit on me, 
                shout “Fuck you,”
             pulling off Dad’s coat   
               from years of past  
             and what comes next. 

                    I’ll love him,  
           hold his tantrum closely,  
     tell him this is not  his story or mine 
      or mom’s or dad’s, but all of ours 
        for better or worse, indivisible.  

     Soon he will understand we live   
        not in a house but past houses    
         picking dog hair off each other   
              in an inheritance of   
     misery and joy, total love and hate. 

              I can only grant you this pact,  
          watch you winter taller, repulsed, 
        the last of your long hair pinned back, 
         your black tie un-noosed around you, 
                rage shocked to stillness, 
              heart stone tugging you inward,

              until we meet in a room of a city
            you know the least and I the most 
              but shared enough to call home.