With every stroke the white paint splatters back down on me. It melts into my skin, Buelito’s coffee hands pour more paint into my pail. He urges me to continue painting our house. I ask him, Why
are you black? With a worn-out half smile, he says, Guerito, my mother, she didn’t love me. One day, when I was a baby, she forgot me outside. I got burned up. That’s why
I’m not guerito like you. Against his dark skin his hazel eyes are lost. From his words, Someday
we’ll be done, laughter streams, like his blood, from him to me as
we walk
around the white house. My soles settle into his footprints. He pours gasoline on my hands and shows me how it is best used to cleanse…