Your Namesake Grips My Neck



And it feels de aquellas. And your verga
And the Boogeyman Dreams, guey,
Flutter and flaunt amid the odd pocket
of mouth: Moths and lyrical quetzals and
Popocoateptl smoldering
on the calabaza horizon of the moon;
In my fury, I croon. I hum
oraciones, spit solace, stroke my fat shaft
Where your tongue needs to be, vato;

That abundance, then.
The luxury of trenzas; aguanto of Popo con Ixta.
Grief of a hundred trumpets, obsidian howl of
Busting my best nut—on your ojitos, your back, flat canvas
of your supple throat. Me traes prendido, guey.
My one and only. My jaino. Mi coyote!