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One Poem  

P. L. Sanchez

The Riots

Pieces of glass on the floor remind him. He broke his first window
at age four. His aunt Jenny was visiting from Ecuador. A tall woman,
proud. Still, they made them bunk together. She gave him
his first cigarette, you know. It was not what he had in mind.
Thought it would taste like butter. He cried, and his parents heard him.
She went out every night, too. If you've been to Lima, you know
La Victoria is the last place to be at in the middle of the night.
Then, early in the morning, she woke him, a glass of gin in her hand.
But he didn’t know it was gin. He didn’t know much of anything, really. “Come, hijito, play with this,” she said. “Throw it in the trash, if you like.”
In his hand, the glass became sentient. It crawled across the room.

Why am I moving?
Why am I glass?

It turned human before their eyes. It earned a degree, got married.

It stopped coming home. Jenny heard rumors around the neighborhood.
They say the cops found it sleeping in a telephone booth. Fifth time in a single week.