Self-Portrait in Granulated Sugar

By David Hernandez

First, the shirt—

my canvas—this black T

I grip, tug up

over my head, and lay

square on the autumn grass,

smooth the ripples out

as best as possible,

while the blades

give beneath my palm.

Now the sack of sugar.

I like this braided thread

stitched along

the seam, the sound it makes

when I tear the bag

open, the whisper of sugar

shifting inside.

It’s slow going—how I

pinch the grains, then

let them

fall on the dark

fabric, drawing the light,

the way it follows

the contours of my face

in this photo from

I can’t remember when.

From noon

to sundown it takes me

to finish, just as

a lone ant arrives, wriggling

over my shirt to find

and lift

one sweet granule

between its mandibles.

It will tell

the others, and the others

the others, and in this way—

under the scatter

of stars—I disappear,

incrementally, as is the case,

all of it taken

back to the earth—

this light I made.

Source: Poetry (November 2025)