Steven Sanchez
Left Anterior Fascicular Block
Scar tissue paves my heart
in rumble strips
like the 99. Southbound
from San Francisco,
k-rails cinch three lanes
into two
into one,
a miles-long corset
meant to protect
construction workers
while they erect pylons
for a high speed rail
on the verge
of abandonment.
Scuff marks streak
against the concrete walls
and I find myself
staring,
wondering
how a car survives,
imagining how
my door’s mirror
would shatter
and I’d wake up
with my face
steeped in glass.
Target fixation—
if you stare long enough,
the body always moves toward its gaze,
and maybe that’s why
I never make eye contact
in a mirror,
though I did stare
at the reflection
of you
and I
holding hands
on the bus
in the Castro—
one of the few times we did
in public.
A man approached us,
said he lost the love of his life
in the 80’s
when America refused to look
at thousands
of Queers
dying. In the window,
our hands held
an entire city.
I never asked
Why are you so afraid?
Electricity
makes a detour
in my heart,
now.
After we ended,
you kissed a man
just outside a restaurant window
and told me
I felt bad because I kept wishing it was you.
Once,
I saw green glass sparkle
on the side of the road—
no—
it was a bird’s corpse,
chest hollowed,
a mound of flies gleaming.
Fresno Writers dot com 