My old wooden door! I'd have been able to 
find your keyhole with my eyes shut. And that
notch there—I might have made it…
-Jean-Paul Sartre, The Flies

Orestes knows he scraped the door
when he was not there. “Yo hubiera
vivido ahí,” he said, I would have passed
through ten thousand times and more.

“Yo hubiera”, he said, I would have, if there,
known your names better than my own
would have said them ten thousand times
and more. But, no, this isn’t my country

anymore. I would’ve liked to know your names,
faces, I try remembering now. But, I’ve tricked myself
out. And this isn’t my country anymore. When guilt tries
to bore into Orestes, “Yo soy libre,” he says,

but I try to remember why I tricked myself
out of the language. America has
clichéd in my mind into me. “Yo soy”
no, I am..I am I cannot lose

America I would steal. Your language, America
I said I would pass everything for you.
“I am...I am” America I cannot lose
the door I never scraped. Orestes knows
he scraped the door when he was not there.