Apá, dying is boring. To pass las horas,
our last name
all over my body.
I try to recall the taste of Pablo’s sweat.
Wet dirt, sí.
I stuff English
into my mouth, spit out chingaderas.
Have it your way.
Home of the Whopper.
for the border. ¡Aguas! The mirror
It erased your face
from my face.
Gave me mother’s smile, narrow nariz.
Once, I wore
The gold slick,
obscene. God, I was beautiful.
with dead men.
The coyote was the third to die.
is still in his wallet.
no gana. Apá, there’s a foto, in my bolsillo,
of a skeleton
in black flames:
Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte.
of smugglers, pick-
pockets, & jotos.
La Flaca. Señora Negra. La Huesuda.
this station. It shimmies with hunger.
To keep it away,
I hurl my memories at it. Your laughter is now
on its fangs.
now breathes inside its lungs. Taste
real choice — I gathered & smashed bottles.
the barrel to a mesquite to find my body.
Apá, kneel in the shade, peel
the scabs. Touch
our last name.