Erasing My Notes from a Library Book

It is easy to identify which underlines are mine.
Usually they are serpentine, with three or four humps
in hushed mechanical pencil. I'm sure that I could tell,
 no telling how, my own store-bought Bic from another.
In the wake of erasure, when rubber debris
speckles the page and wedges itself in the spine's cleft,
there are still slight signs of the familiar lines,
still stray fragments of my handwriting--
the shell of a lower-case "e," an "A"'s left leg--
too muted for anybody else to notice,
but impossible for me to ignore.

Computer Class

“When you want the arrow on the screen to move up
you slide your hand up
with the mouse,”
I explain to her.
In a small, community computer lab
in a low-income neighborhood in Buenos Aires,
Maria uses Google image search for the first time.
This is the first time she has seen
her home town in seven years,
since she left with her three children
from the mountainous province of Salta,
to escape her abusive husband.
She describes it to me matter-of-factly,
the threat of his six-foot presence. Then,
transitioning quickly, pointing at the screen,
she describes the breathtaking presence of the tall
ceilings in the church at the center of town;
the walls painted with gold leaves,
the dresses her daughters wore on Easter.
“They looked like dolls,” she says, smiling,
“but we had to leave behind most of our clothes.
We had to leave so fast.”
Her eyes well up with pixels
reflected in the screen.
I am unsure what kind of tears these are.

She points to an image of a park,
wiping her eyes with her free palm.
“There I had my quinceañera.”
“It looks beautiful,” I reply.
“What color was your dress?”

She half smiles,
looking down at the mouse,
marveling at the technology.
“Sometimes,
when you want your hand to move up,
it doesn’t move.
Sometimes you can’t protect yourself.
Sometimes it doesn’t
click
fast enough.”

Her smile fades.

She slowly, carefully,
slides the mouse up,
puts the arrow over the X in the corner,
and closes the browser.
“Red,” she says.
“My dress was red.”

Virtuoso

Marco’s been teaching me

this music theory.

Any time I start

ripping on music,

he’s just like,

“Fuck you, man.

You don’t know

what that does

for someone.

You don’t know

how it affects

their heart.

That sound

might be hitting

someone

in just the right way.”