our canton one miraculous morning when the frijoles go off

for all of us lonely-ass homeboys


our canton:
near dawn, drapes of my eyelids drawn—
bacon blackened a brusque beautiful
ash, then, a hot sarten of my frijoles
hissing, hissing—

the colchones majestic, your jaw drawn like the gulfo
over a flimsy pillow,
a warrior yawn but it’s more,
more like love, love
that yowling creature who’s crawled
surreptitiously up these 6 harrowing years
into the cavernous heart-hole of these
pebbly ribs
with its one little bone and stalactites, and
propped me up,
my legs fixed into our shoulder blades
like anvils and
love, love

i can hear my own throat—
slobbering, gobs, gobs of
magnificent Mescan nut

and beneath you i don’t know exactly how
i can hold the whole entire breath of the memory of all the
rivers and bahias, then, every precious cuento and
coraje my ancestors
relayed to me via lore and
love

de primeras—my eye on your drooling cuero,
your glistening shaft of my spit and spite,
a cuento for all cuentos, a cuento,

and that’s sal y sweat, see,
gliding lucidly
off Lupita’s ceramic pestaña, guey, guey—
love, one morning