By Jessica Enriquez
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the man who lingers in the highway
the hands that reach to tear, scrape
skin and flesh
with nails like claws
not buds sprouting from the grass
barely wet in morning rain
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the worms that climb the bed
their bodies thick and viscid
their breathing invisible
within their tiny hairs, receptors
that detect the movement
of legs dangling, alive
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the neighbor that spies from the bathroom window
the starving eyes that strip and bare
breasts and thighs
exposed not to natural light
but to unfamiliar air,
humidity seeping in
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the wide-open doors
carrying in the voices of streets
plagued by a congestion of indifference
cold, distant, fluttering birds
the eternal movement
of the homeless
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the long golden legs
that emerge and extend at will
wild coriander stems
unveiling little white buds
to the early burning sun
I’m afraid of You
You,
and the late september rain
that infiltrates the nose
and reaches the lungs, accentuating
blooming like fungi
putrid and malignant
I’m afraid of You
Mami,
and your cicadas that dig
inside innards and intestines
distending cells, cytoplasm
a chronic inflammation of the body
Jessica Enriquez is a Mexican-American writer with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature and a minor in Spanish. Her main focus is creative writing, specializing in short stories and poetry. Her work often focuses on women’s autonomy, Latin-American culture, and familial relationships. She is also a strong advocator for Spanish outreach and engagement of Spanish-speaking parents in the academic setting. She currently serves as a YPA in Foundation Communities Sierra-Ridge’s learning center.
