after danez smith

much like a baby, he’s keen to teethe with his enamel & file
the tissue in his fangs down to points. except he can walk on
his own & choose the exact opposite of what is good: tables
& chairs & doors & sticks & shoes & socks & couch cushions
& his own leash & jujubes that fall from the next door
neighbor’s tree before they get a chance to sprout & the
corners of books & cardboard & plastic & headphones &
wires & rubber doorstoppers. & everything carries the
capacity to be sharp, even what is soft. & he longs to turtle-
snap & fish out what is tempting & close his jaws to satisfy
an instinct: shirts & apron ties & kitchen towels hanging &
balls of yarn as though forgetting the name of his species &
toy squeakers & tablecloths & tía’s dress & my arm & the
fingers that feed him & flesh not too different from muscle
he eats. & eventually he abandons his conquest, wet & sore
with saliva & ripped & peeling & pieces missing & broken
& useless & scratched up & stinging & bleeding & welted &
scabbed over if healing is a thing that is possible. & he leaves
a part of himself behind, fearing the feeling of being
forgotten. already so good at being a boy when not
everything he does turns up as a bruise but it sinks into skin
anyway. & there’s small tusks growing out of his gums &
he’s gnawing the world down to marrow & i know he’s trying
to understand the terrain he was thrust into & the beauty he
barely knows, that he might choke it down easier than water.
& i try to remember how painful it can be to lose milk teeth
before permanence & how our parents’ advice was to tie the
loose root to a doorknob & pull & i want to be better than
that. but i walk around now like i’m holding my breath &
scared that i’ll turn around & something new will be in his
mouth that shouldn’t be. & everything is vulnerable or a
danger & maybe the most vulnerable thing is me, who slams
doors & cries out & longs to make a mess long after whatever
has been destroyed is thrown away & taken & landfilled. & i
am alone. & i can’t laugh off violence or destruction anymore
& i look at him & want to become it & am desperate &
perhaps that is where he gets it from. 

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Sofía Aguilar (she/they) is a Chicana writer, editor, teaching artist, community organizer, and library professional based on the traditional homelands of the Tongva, Kizh, and Chumash peoples (Los Angeles, California). Her work has appeared in the L.A. Times, Latino Book Review, Acentos Review, and New Orleans Review, among other publications. She is the author of amor. (Bottlecap Press) and Queer Latine Heroes: 25 Changemakers from Latin America and the U.S. from History and Today (Jessica Kingsley Publishers). Her next poetry collection STREAMING SERVICE: the series finale is slated to release in March 2026. She can be found at sofiaaguilar.com or on social media @sofiaxaguilar.