[wpaudio url=”/audio/june12/Hiraldo.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
When I find myself
crossed at you my boy,
when you throw
the yellow car from
our balcony
to the second floor balcony
in the next building, when you hurl
the red umbrella
from the 30th Avenue N platform
to the tracks below, or when
you chuck
your milk bottle on the rising foam
of your soaking T,
I glimpse my mother chasing me
as I sped from the kitchen
to her bedroom window
to heave some slick-designed
1970s cutlery
from my parents’
5th fl Washington Heights apartment.

I remember the delight in relinquishing,
years before the experience of loss
turns us into collectors.