Hog

Tied, this man I know

had his belly pressed to asphalt

and had his wrists, thin and bony, 

tethered atop his spine

(ankles there, too)--

traps and black tar and thighs

override a 9:30 sky:  

while hosed over him: orange,

orange, the iridescent orange,

marvelous orange, which those

of us birthed in barrios and on calles know 

(so pretty, if he was not so forcibly bound

and spitting up sludge over lips 

and chin).

“Why??  Why??”

Another part of his heart arrives.

I never knew the young vato’s name,

yet, his namesake was known.  They called

him Speedy, and he lived someplace down

the road, and surely, this one called

Speedy must have known

what his old man was up to.

Must have been able to figure

it out.  “What the fu...!?!?”

His young vato’s voice, a harpoon.

And then, the youngster gets balls

and thinks he’ll rush to where

the chotas have his old man pinned;

“Get back!  Get back!”

A scuffle.  Turmoil.  

I remember the way my own cora

put a fist on me that was soon a grip

above the crux of elbow and hindsight 

on which I’d soon, like that youngster, 

rest the brunt of all my questions and all

my kites.

On the ground, skin glimmers.

Face busted up and sausage-like,

not palpable, not meaningful.

“This ain’t our shit,” my own old

man goes.  We climb our stairs.  

Inside, we can hear the shouts.  

When the shots come, I don’t even watch

from the flimsy bed sheet

draped grandly to the tall window 

of our Lorena Street canton.  

In the morning, I watch an anciana

hose the place on the concrete

where Speedy’s vato gave up his blood.