"Breath Is A Body At War" by Saúl Hernández

Breath Is A Body At War

Before the body knows breath, it knows war. 
	The way there was a war inside the hands of Abuelo, 
who plucked tomatoes off vines until his hands were 
	 	left purple & red. Who passed down his hands 
to Apá & how his hands smelled of gasoline & oil, no matter 
	how many times he washed. Who passed down his hands to me.

Outside a bar, a drunk man gives me a fireball kiss, heat goes 
	inside of me. Afterwards, he shoves his fist
		into my face. Calls me faggot. 
This man wants to kill me because 
	we breathe the same air. 

War is like that, silent in movement— like my
	Abuela who collects paper towels everywhere she goes 
		because they were a luxury for her growing up. 
She used to stack them in her purse until her bag slipped off her shoulder, 
	the wind blew out every napkin flying
& she jumped for every white piece as if they were dollar bills. 

	A war has edges, like the man at the gym who wears a “guns out” shirt.
Who later tells me: Come to my house, 
	where he kneels on the floor in front of me, 
		licks my fingers until he gags on them. 
He lays on all fours, begs: Put your fist inside me.
	
	There are truths I’ll never know in this body. 
When immigration called out Amá’s name incorrectly, 
	she corrected them, as if to say the border can take everything away 
		but it can’t take away my name.

	Before Abuelo died, my tíos & Abuela said he fought his own body 
to breathe. They said he made his hands into fists. I imagine him 
	telling himself: Todavía no es mi tiempo.

	A man once sat in my bed, his body buzzing. I told him: 
We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. 
	We sat in silence holding hands for an hour. When he turned to kiss me, 
		he said: Do you know God is watching us? 
	
	For more than half of my life, I’ve asked my hands why they wanted to touch 
a man. 		But even a war must have a home
				
				& like this poem before it knew it would even have a line —
					maybe it too clenched its hands & fought for breath.




Appears in How to Kill a Goat & Other Monsters (University of Wisconsin Press, 2024)

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Audio: Saúl Hernández reads “Breath Is A Body At War”

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Saúl Hernández is a queer writer, who was raised by former undocumented parents, he’s the author of How to Kill A Goat & Other Monsters, winner of the Lambda Literary Award for Gay Poetry, a 2025 Writers’ League of Texas Discovery Award Winner, longlisted for the PEN Open Book Award, and awarded the Texas Institute of Letters’ Honor-Winner.

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