i was smaller than a candle. i had no bold fire
to scare away the little man whose mouth
was made of shadow, whose old body
lived behind my bedroom wall.my duende made sure i was clean.

 

like an obsessed mother, he used to reach out of the wall
& cut my toenails. watch my dreams swirl behind my young hair.
& if my mind dreamed of lights too incomprehensible
to my duende, he would scoop my dream in his little hands

 

toss it in the dark of his mouth. that was the spring of my life
when strawberries are meant to paint our thumbs.
when the warm sun is our only god. but i stayed inside
with my duende & let him eat my childhood.

 

now, my duende lives in the mirror.

 

he is the first eye to see me change, to see the woman
i’m shaping with trembling hands. i, who gave
the duende my boyhood as if it were an apple to share,
refuse to give womanhood as easily. i scream when i see

 

his mouth. i take a break from mirrors & my partner
cradles my head. their fingers are as soft as raindrops
when they graze my chin hair. they don’t think i’m less
of a woman at such small hours. in the morning

 

i’ll find his mouth again, my old duende.
& i’ll need to somehow remember
that my face does not belong to the mirror

 

not even a duende can keep it.
when i step away, it is mine again,
she was always mine.