Because we craved permission to be despondent in English
Desperate for words to hide erections for other boys
behind Trapper Keepers, to document Kotex leaks in our journals
We needed
To be maudlin about being untranslatable
To do this in private, in the company of someone with rank
We hunted for you in crates, battled mold and being broke
Scraped pennies from grandparents who collected cans to feed us
We needed to hear your 50s guitar, the key of sorrow
Fans of Juan Gabriel twirl
We shake farsantes, know posers when we see them
You our savior for the disconsolation of being
Mexican and born here or not, our duplexes south of the 60 freeway
No Movement murals cushion a daily gray sky, ninety-nice cent interchanges
To your voice, we work our lives away in UPS trucks, as perfect receptionists, in community college for eight years
You taught me to hate the queen
I already hated the church for making me dirty, we were instant friends
You showed me to want public transit death, as long as we were together
We saved you from the has-been dollar bin
We’re your American Manchester Day Dream, empty tire factories, soot-covered eyelids, cracked front teeth and bleeding lips
We fondled your open shirts and built a country around you
of sidelong glances and glum gladiolus
When you first saw our tight black jeans and creepers,
You caught us like that tiger, recognized our crestfallen brown eyes,
lined in black, our red lips
Knew closely our penchant for racing Chevys down Slauson with no headlights
We were your wistful twins, nostalgic that boy we won’t share
You saw us make love in cemeteries
Gave us trim sideburns, Las Vegas Elvis beats made us jump like beans
We are fatalists by nations on all sides
Death-happy because it constantly raps at our door
In the carcinogenic heart of this Manchester
Our black lungs sing with you
Because every time we listen
It’s our last day, too
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Originally published in Brooklyn & Boyle Magazine, February 2014, Abel Salas, editor
Vickie Vértiz 