i met jesus today.
he didn’t care what
it said on his sweatshirt
the brand. the design.
it was in english.

we looked each other
in the eyes after a sweaty
game of soccer on the
dirt field with a size 4 ball.

and called each other
mentirosa for adding points
to our scores that weren’t
really made. beaded black eyes.

didn’t need anything i was
used to. didn’t want anything that
wasn’t there. ensenada breeze.
mi maestro en español.

i, his teacher of english.
jesus and i bonded for
at least 4 hours. as
the ten-year-old
gave a ‘don’t go’
look but with a
confident
expectation
that
i

would beg to
come back.

Do you remember Mexico?
How old were we then, twelve?
That place was so loved
It smelled like dust and slow-cooked beans
We caught a toad
We painted dorms
El Sauzal, the willow, the willow
A beaten-up concrete playground
Bright, yellow sun
Red, sticky Fanta
Worn-in smiles adjusting to the smell of strangers
I fell in love with a Mexican boy
We didn't even play soccer together
Watched a movie in a language neither of us spoke
Climbed trees with leaves that needed a rake
Cleaned a nursery room
Told scary stories around a red campfire
Letting the world seep into our veins
Saw the dolphins when we camped at the beach
Named and re-named the tick-ridden dogs
The water was wetter
The air was headier
The sun shined more unrelentingly, more heavenly
The blisters harder-won
The rain more of a blessing
The life so much more tangible and delicious

Sumida en la ironía
esboza un apático gesto
y en el nicho indulgente de la discordia
se encuentran sus ojos ingratos.

La Dama clorótica seca sus lágrimas,
ejecuta con elegancia la centímana
que acoge ramales de negros liros
a sus cianóticos pabellones

¡Cuan grata la dicha pérfida del desencuentro!

Profesa la peste con umbría renitencia,
en la lúgubre sobre-voz que estremece
el canoro fúnebre en Pico de Roma
que delata en cada suspiro
la cólera rancia del abandono

Que perfuma con néctar de Belladona
el fino sosiego de un paño de seda.
Fruto pródigo que espeta
la terca laconia de sus nefastas palabras

Porque solo un ósculo
que terse el crúor de sus labios
bastará para convenir su silencio.
Sauzal que atraviesa su boca
añeja y estéril como la yerma

Y quien fuera una bella rubescente
hoy besa el miasma maldito
que proclama a la urdimbre.
su maligno efluvio letal

Mañana serás el fantasma,
el fantasma de ojos velados.
Mañana serás la nada
y negros serán tus huesos.