V
Mexican Heaven
it turns out god is one of those religious Mexicans
who doesn’t drink or smoke weed, so all the Mexicans
in heaven party in the basement while god reads
the bible & thumbs a rosary. god threatens to kick
all the Mexicans out of heaven si no paran
con las pendejadas, so the Mexicans drink more
discreetly. they smoke outside where god won’t
smell the weed. god pretends the Mexicans are reformed.
hallelujah. this cycle repeats once a month. amen.
Poem to Take the Belt Out of My Dad’s Hands
in this story, he is wearing the belt instead of bringing it down. my ass stays soft. my head hard. in this story, the belt hangs in his closet. i snatch it & bury it. in this story, the belt acts alone. it is not his hands. he is watching TV. SportsCenter or whatever. he would stop the belt if he could. in this story, i grab the belt & beat myself with it—in this story, it is my own hands. his hands stay innocent. i stand above myself and it is for my own good. in this story, i bury the leather belt in a cement coffin. i eat a whole cow and wear the skin like a luxurious silk. in this story, i am waiting for the whip. in this story, i am already crying. in this story, he doesn’t reach for the belt. the belt is buried. he reaches for my head and rubs it. soft. he says it’s okay. in this story, there is no but. this story ends here. my dad. me. still under his hands. still crying.
My Mom Texts Me for the Millionth Time
the phone vibrates/ my mom buzzes my desk/ her love reaches me/ wherever i am/ which is usually/ unavailable/ my mom home with my family/ minus me/ might as well/ be my name/ it’s our family’s second house/ in Calumet City/ after the first was lost/ to anachronisms/ you can find my mom/ on the couch/ her shoes off/ her bare feet/ throb with her American ache/ her work will wake her/ in a few hours/ to frame a store/ my mom’s work is turning sanitary/ into pristine/ but you already know/ my mom’s work/ by its invisibility/ my mom shopping with you/ watching you spill mountain dew/ on her floors/ my job takes me away/ from home/ so i can build a bridge back/ to the living room/ where my mom rests/ her feet/ awash in the glow/ she makes/ so effortless/ it’s impossible/ to tell the light/ comes from her own body
I Loved the World So I Married It
music, even on the day my grandma died
there were mangos though i tasted nothing.
but slowly i came back to the world & carne asada.
better than i remembered, smoke off the meat. i could not
contain my happiness even though it felt offensive
to smile with my grandma buried & getting eaten
by the flowers. & sometimes, i look at my love &
think i would like to stay, to put a welcome mat
on our doorstep with our names hyphenated.
when i was young i believed in forever. then
my uncle died & i knew forever included none
of my family, included no friends, their stories
rotting in my head until i lose them again, so
i know i will divorce the world & let it keep
my most treasured possessions: a six-piece
with lemon pepper & mild sauce on, all the honey
of a slow kiss, my Apple Music playlists,
the way mi abuelita smiled & called me Lupito.
i hated that name except when she said it.
Love Poem Feat. Kanye West
on our first date
you arrived fashionably—
after my second beer—
just as the waiter was about
to offer me the Stood Up Special.
when you tell the story
you say it was Kanye.
how i swooned
the second you mentioned
College Dropout & it’s true
my love language is the sped-up
soul sample on Slow Jamz.
i don’t know how love works
but i remember the day
my grandma died
we talked on the phone.
i don’t remember what you said
or whether it helped.
i only remember
when i called you answered.
for Erika
Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains
i love you dad, i say to the cat.
i love you dad, i say to the sky.
i love you dad, i say to the mirror.
it rains, & my mom’s plants
open their mouths. my dad stays
on the couch. maybe the couch opened
its mouth & started eating my dad.
i love you dad, i say to the couch,
its tongue working my dad like a puppet.
i hear the rain fall & think the city is drinking.
or making itself clean. i am here
with my dad & the TV & the TV drones
on & on, so i’m not sure i hear it—
my dad grunting and nodding,
not the mushy stuff i was expecting,
neither of us cry, no hug or kiss.
a grunt & a nod. i love* you dad,
i say to my dad. we sit together
and watch TV. outside it rains. my dad
turns the volume up. the city is drunk.
the city is singing badly in the shower.
i killed a plant once because i gave
it too much water. lord, i worry
that love is violence. my dad is silent
& our relationship is not new or clean.
i killed a plant once because i didn’t give
it enough water. my dad and i watch TV
on a rainy day. we rinse our mouths
with this water.
*America loves me most when i strum a Spanish song. mi boca guitarrón. when i say me estoy muriendo, they say that’s my jam.
River Oaks Mall (Reprise)
we were so American it was transparent.
Southpole hoodie & a i-could-give-a-fuck type
attitude. french fries down our throats.
blood pressure bursting. thin, fair
white women in our fantasies. in our faces,
our grandmothers’ faces. so what?
we pawn it at the mall for a gold star.
a stamp of approval across our stomachs.
2Pac’s less militant children.
it’s not that we don’t want to be Mexican.
we love tacos, we reply.
where does that voice come from & why
does it sound so white? later, we run back
to the pawn shop to ask for a refund,
but México is hip now. the pawn shop
is a shrine to Selena. they charge Mexicans
triple to get in. it’s not that we hate
where we’re from. it’s just
we spent so much on name-brand clothes
& even if the fit chokes the neck,
the name still looks good
emblazoned in gold, doesn’t it?
Gentefication
i plant a grain of sand in the new-organic-juice spot
en el barrio. soon, donkeys shit big stinky shits
on carrot containers. our tíos y tías smoking cigarettes
& taking up all the plugs. the grain of sand grows
into a cactus & mi Abuelita Jacinta is back
with the living. she’s kicking the juicers out
of her kitchen & making masa. the whole block
heard what’s happening, & outside the hydrants
open and flood the streets. the bad news is
the property value is going down again.
the bad news is white people are taking kale
with them. the good news is my boy Nate
is teaching poetry workshops in the shade.
Gwendolyn Brooks smelled the tamales
& came down to write. rejoice in the good news.
my dad comes through with a cooler
of beer & no one gets drunk enough to fight.
my mom’s french braid gets longer every minute.
soon it will be long enough to toss to our cousins
in México. in LA. in Texas. there are Mexicans in DC
who got the call. Salvadorans bringing pupusas.
from the cactus, we get a steel mill.
from the steel mill, we get more tortillas.
the bad news is the economists say there is zero
economic value on our block. the good news is
we threw away the economics textbooks.
we trade tortillas for haircuts, nopales for healthcare,
poems for groceries, & if all you can do
is eat the food, we ask that you wash your dishes.
the donkeys bless everything we grow.
from the tortillas, we get more desert,
& from the desert, we get low riders. cars bounce.
our cousins in gangs get their bendiciones
from our abuelitas. the whole block is alive
& not for sale. the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo rescinded.
it’s happening on our block & maybe it’s happening
on your block. the bad news is the president
sends the national reserve. the good news is
they’ll never find us. we pack everything
into the trunk of a Toyota Corolla. when la migra comes,
their dogs bark & spit, but all they find is grains of sand.
Guapo
i start with my feet because i hardly ever look
at them to say hello. hello, left foot. hello, right foot.
i give my feet my favorite name.
the name my mom gives me when she brags
to relatives. Que Guapos, i say to my best kick.
my awkward dance partners. my friends in almost
catching the beat. i move up through the hairy
terrain named my legs. Guapo, i say to moonlight
skin. Heartbreaker, i say to my thighs, ass, and dick.
my lover took all her pet names when she left.
my name doesn’t belong to her now. Ay Papi, I say
to the scar on my belly. i only knew my name
when it came out of her mouth. Aye, Shawty, What It Is,
i say to my freckled chest. to the red bumps i used
to hide under t-shirts. ugly as all hell, but all mine.
my chest so pale it glows in the dark. Guapo
i say to the lanterns i carry. my red beard.
i give myself all of the names i like. Young Josélito,
Papi Churro, Lupe. shout out my hair while
i still have it. shout out my hairline & how
it makes me look like my dad. my face i got from
my mom. we look the same when we are laughing.
Guapo, i say. it is my new name. it is my old name.
it is my only name.