Paz asks someone in another room,

Who is in there? And someone says,

No one, señor. I am. Nobody is afraid

to exist. Nobody is a mistake.

Nobody is cancelled. Nobody

says anything—an omission from the record.

Silence is always present.

What secret will Nobody whisper,

when silence becomes a song,

when they say blood cannot be heard

between clenched teeth—withdrawing.

Nobody’s shadow contracts &

leaves an echo—finds distance,

hints there’s history there—a fiction

to hide how little Nobody risks,

because Nobody was once a Bad Hombre,

because Nobody didn’t know Bad Hombres

made them a Nobody, or Mala Mujueres,

rightfully said Nobody was too predictable,

too quiet, evasive in the shape of desire.

Don Juan must sing a song—tell a tall one—

tell us why they are SOMEBODY macho

enough to wound the empty form—