by Gustavo Adolfo Aybar
He doesn’t take anything serious, she says. Wonder where he gets it from. Her eyes—two hand-forged razor-sharp katanas—strike my left shoulder, slice through my clavicle, sever veins, arteries. Our son plays tag while other teammates worry about dribbling. Defense. Years away from practicing angles, power, and control; the way adults play when divorce ruptures and splits their life in two. I practice silence.
Multiple Incisions
I undress, lie on exam table.
Pants down; penis exposed. Today
the male doctor numbs, then cuts
my scrotum. Removes
all hopes for more kids;
my betrayal
bruises.
Swells.
Gustavo Adolfo Aybar is a Dominican born poet, writer, translator, father, and mentor. He holds an MA in Romance Languages and Literature and is a Cave Canem fellow. He’s currently completing his first illustrated kids book, and submitting his second full-length hybrid poetry collection dealing with his training as a law enforcement officer. His work can be found in Spanglish-Voces, Acentos Review, and South Florida Poetry Journal, The Rupture, among other online journals and in-print publications.
