Sign of Water

Sign of Water

By Jonathan Aquino

For West Coast Eisteddfod

I.

An old building, almost empty, second floor.

I was alone, standing on the corridor,

then a guy approached, some dude

wearing a red Che Guevara shirt,

baggy jeans, black socks, and no shoes.

II.

He nodded at me, and I did likewise.

“Where’s your ward, man?” I asked.

“Last one on the left,” he said. “Hey!”

“Hey what?” I asked, startled.

He said he saw me the other day

downstairs where people get x-rays.

III.

“Clem,” he said, and, “Thomas,” I said,

but we did not shake hands, though he asked 

if there are cigarettes I happen to have,

and I said, “But we can’t smoke,”

and he said, “Rules, rules, rules!”

IV.

Just then, a man went past, ignoring us,

heading towards the far pavillion.

“My ward," Clem said. He added: “My dad,”

and he translated: “Mi padre.”

“You freaking hablo Español?!” I was amazed.

“Un poco,” he said. “A little. My dad and I,”

he confessed, “don't talk.” And I,

of course, didn't ask why. I nodded:

it's sometimes wise not to push advice.

V.

“I’m into astrology!” I told him with pride,

and asked his sign. “Aquarius.” he replied,

and solemnly, like the Oracle at Dolphy,

I said he was born on the sign of water,

and he was speechless in wonder.

“Your favorite song,” I cried, 

“is Cool Change!” He was surprised.

“Little River Band!” he joyfully said, 

loud enough to wake up the dead.

VI.

“It's not like in the movies,” he said.

I said nothing, just nodded.

“By the way, who’s with you?” he asked.

“Nobody,” I smiled, my sorrow masked.

We were silent for a moment.

“This is really happening,” Clem said.

I nodded. “Yup,” I said, brooding.

He nodded too. “Yeah,” he said, sighing.

A little while later,

there materialized an orderly,

pushing a stretcher,

a gleaming white sheet over 

my new friend's mortal body. 

We bowed our heads silently

as it passed through us squeakily.