To Gabriel García Márquez

Estimado Señor Márquez

I am writing to you because

Of a story you wrote,

Hace, unos años.

It was called “Light is Like Water”—

La luz es como el agua.

And I would like to know

Where the light comes from.

You said it comes out of light bulb faucets but

What kind of glass stores that kind of beauty?

If light is like water, it carries a million

Molecules and lost memories,

Corrodes copper pipes and breaks glass

In a rush of luz.

Does the water in my faucet reside inside

Its swan-curved neck, or does it only appear

Because I ask it to?                                

Your light spills over when two boys break a bulb,

And yet I pass light bulbs every day

Waiting for one to flood my home, so

I can float on molten gold,

I’ve yet to crack it:

My home remains dry of light.

When I looked into the sun at age four

My eyes danced through black and gold spots.

They burned, Sr. Márquez,

Pero podía sentir

Your light behind them.

If I touched the Sun, your luz grande,

I might burn my hand,

Leaving a Jupiter-red spot on my index finger,

But I don’t know that I would ever regret

Having poked the underside of the Sun’s belly.

“Look,” I would say, “I have touched the Sun.”

And I suppose you would ask me when I planned

On going back up there. 

Does your light really burn, or did the boys just

Gorge themselves on liquid light until

Their mortal bodies sublimed?

Quizás nunca sabré, pero

I figured I would ask.

Sincerely,

A Reader