After Victor Román Mendoza’s book of the same name

 

​

Staged scenarios

of moonshine, 

the head

of a comrade

is tarnished 

by the police 

chief’s cumshot. 

Isn’t that

how it always

happens? The severed 

chin lifted

to higher realms

while the body

is roamed by fire

ants in the jungle. 

I was certain 

anything handsome 

would be found

out and hollowed.

I was certain

one was allowed

entry if only

they were emptied

of pleasure.

If they insisted

on cracking our legs

open like a crab

to suck the yield

from our brains

until we were pure

creatures

of the land.

I imagined —

all the pigs

we teased out 

of their slaughter

with just this

moment

-ous mouth.

Open up,

the baton building

character

in your back,

the barrel, one 

alloyed finger 

ruffling your hair

like how someone

once told me

there’s so much

promise in you

and another person

on all fours

cannot begin

to fulfill them.

We were fucking,

there

I said it

finally

firefights 

full of

flickering 

bulbs

above the face

of landfall cliffs.

Here 

I said it.

This is where

we traffick

our children

along the mountains

within the rubric

of running

towards chaste

rivers plunging

into basins below 

with their cunning

grin. 

I warned you.

Even the smallest boy

digs a grave

for their mother

land’s shores

when they jump

into the water. 

Even the smallest

girl has an equal 

boy in stature. 

Both sitting 

on mango trees,

plucking

tears from each

other’s smaller 

chests.

I dare you.

Take them 

from each other

and they will take up 

arms, cutting

with impossible

leaves

the answers

from your throat.