Saliva to Thread, Sternum, and Scalp

an escapulario has snapped;

kneeling, fingers fumble, 

nimbly wishing to

fuse the broken thread

whole

traffic lights do not wait;

midday, a sedulous task:  

a tallboy and lotto;

PikNik doors swing shut and 

open in unwitting applause; 

shuffling feet miss

him.

I could offer the young vato

what I have around my

neck;  

he will soon find saliva

will not fuse

a broken escapulario.

I could offer homeboy

a hand, the repose of a 

vato’s shoulder,

or

words of advisement 

(trucha, homito.   looking at me

like that, you already know

the bulk of what there is to know).

I could offer

my scalp, stubble, salt, and 

pressed to

the slick section of his neck 

where he will dream

of others after me 

(the permanence of ink si vale),

could offer

the sternum, where he

has never felt a vato’s lips form

crisp ovals, has never felt

that crushing weight of a vato’s 

goatee inching up your spine that

first time, where 

the prick of his name enjoining

the wall of your cora is a

new thing;

could show him my own

shit, those losses and aguantos

where another’s

letters dangle atop cora flesh

and rib;

(be down.  know how to not fuck a good thing up, 

yet, know when to say fuck it and leave

that shit behind)

and then,

my own saliva 

might accept 

his own scraped scalp;  

Clown, I will learn they call him.

he will tell me it all,

and intently, I will listen; 

(can’t ever say nobody ever gave you a chance)

glistening brown, scarred, 

his scalp touching

my thigh or the flat of my belly,

a twist of the mouth 

sets that space inside him

where the

thread has broken 

ablaze 

what’s your pit’s name? he says.

Cucuy, I say.  

parking lot has emptied, a place

as vacant as my bed.

works best if you just put it on,

make a knot.

(some things, pa, can never be fixed)

I spit.  crack my neck, go slow.