If a song could kill us
I hope I dance better than I forgive.
If my pulse was a beat, let the DJ
turn that shit up,
until there was nothing left to play.
Papi is a title. I am the inheritance of a name
passed down. Gave up any right to the throne.
I rule different.
I am not canon,
I want abandon to be the one word my son always gets incorrect on his vocabulary test.
I spell different.
I am not a bomb.
Ears don’t need to practice how to duck.
Proud will not be a dish served cold.
I love different
I am not a weapon.
I fear my voice when it becomes a chainsaw and every mirror is a reminder that sons are natural ventriloquist dolls cutting the strings before
we cut down the things we love.
My voice carries luggage I didn’t pack.
I am learning to unload before I board. It is not easy to travel where the heart
has no map.
I sang bass in choir all four years of high school.
Familiarity is a hurt we tend to keep close.
My boy is a tenor I am trying to harmonize with.
Silence and Masculinity both cut deeply,
a double edged sword. Notes are not created equal.
Many of us will die from what is buried deep inside before death is ever loaded into the
chamber. I am not a gun.
My voice cracks when I attempt to be a soprano but
I don’t need to carry a pitch anymore.
I don’t need to be the best pitcher anymore. I don’t need to drink this whole pitcher anymore for proud to be a meal at my table.
I feed different.
I am not a name.
Familiarity is a hurt we can’t stop humming to until we fall into love
with a new melody.
If a song could kill.
I would keep my hands visible.
Keep them up like I was raising the roof.
Hold them still
as if the sun wasn’t heavy to hold.
Hold them still
as if son wasn’t too heavy to hold
If a song could kill.
I’d roll down the windows, singing the chorus at the top of my lungs. Not afraid to let old tracks finish. Not afraid to listen to what’s going to play next.
To all the boys who stutter
Before you knock know if
love is a flame,
she is a fire that cannot be contained.
When I open the door,
I won’t ask your name or how you know her, or allow you to deliver a script you rehearsed the
whole way here.
I will only ask one question.
“What does man mean to you?”
This is not a trick.
There is no right answer but there is a galaxy of wrong ones.
If your tongue goes numb and the words don’t form quick enough to reply,
I will wait at this door step with you, but, you will not be granted entry inside.
You may forget we are a constellation of stars,
believe it is common to just fill the space with
rules on how we must behave.
Gender comes with a playbook that isn’t properly written.
I am not naïve
I know there are many sons who know papi likes
his corona with limón and
his women submissive and quiet so
I will give you a minute to answer my question.
I know these are lessons that may not have been part
of the curriculum under your roof but in this home
she has no ceiling.
She is a love letter with no envelope,
know that my ears are a forest and her trail always
leads to my heart
my throat is trained to howl,
and I know exactly how wolves hunt.
Understand she will not be the prey you feast upon,
she will be the fulfillment you pray for.
You may have heard stories that men are the spinners of
she's never had to
ask permission to move this globe
I am not asking you to be a Hercules.
I am asking you to know the God in you
does not want you to be a God.
If these bodegas could talk
I saw death at the corner of the block, standing inpatient like she was waiting at the
bus stop, Like she was
waiting for a heart to stop,
like she was tired of
of feeling like flesh and indecision.
I carried a question on my face, my
aunt once told me you can’t fake a
smile to anyone who is really
I walked over in my loose Tim’s, the
Northface with the hoodie fur.
Her eyes began rolling back, cheeks
sucked in like she was eating a sour
patch candy. Letting it be known
she ain’t the type
for the catcalls.
Hey Ma how you doing wasn’t my
language of choice anyways, so she listened.
I asked her why is everyone so afraid
She shrugged her shoulders like they were a purse
carrying something too heavy to hold
Told me I have no clue but if I’m being
honest you should be more scared of
People lose more time waiting for life
Than I ever do taking it away.
Frankie A Soto is an author and poet by way of New York. The New York Times has called him an absolute force. He is the 2019 winner of the Multicultural Poet of the year award from the National Spoken Word Poetry Awards and now a 2x winner (2019, 2016)