Two Poems by Daniel Ruiz

Waterslide

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I found Orion’s Belt in my closet, under a stack of gym bags.

I became mayor of Orlando by accident.

Someone added bite marks to my heart.

The House in Austin. Large windows, stray cats.

Yearlong layover in Texas. (ft. one-week escape to my first home on earth) I wrote poems these years, I swear.

Ouch! My knee.

I won a fellowship. I was a stray dog in Valparaiso.

Ouch! My knee. (ft. a volley of hats) I was Michael Jordan of the Leach Fitness Center from 10 p.m. to close.

I swear I wrote poems these years.

Ah, Year I Took All Those Buses. Became a “serious” poet. Or else— Morning of my 18th birthday: “Mom, we’re equals now.”

Did I get my license this year? Did I— I was kissed for the first time in 2 ½ years. That was 16% of my life at the time!

I played basketball every single day. I discovered the jump rope.

Manhood?

It seems like at this point everything fogs up, with certain random experiences standing out— as at 11, I returned to Puerto Rico for the first time since I left—and the images

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I associate with them: all those green mountains, the aggressive driving, listening to Speakerboxxx / The Love Below on CD in the back of my uncle’s Element, a car they stopped making years before, during which time he told us that often people stopped him, trying to convince him to sell it—and I stop here because that memory isn’t mine, I just color it with my version of those backdrops, the collaged-up skyline of mountains and beaches boomeranging into a coast, that’s how to produce a virtuoso, that’s how the story begins. Tata died this year. Ale was born.

At 3, I was a 3-year old.

At 2, I was a 2-year old.

1: The birthday we have all those pictures from. I played the role of Birthday Boy. With no influence to speak of, I was the plank that language walked.