Sometimes she nuzzles her head in my breasts
“I just want to make home here” she says
Sometimes she grabs my ass
“You move like a fuckin queen!”
her hands caress my hips as we dance
salsa, figure 8 figure, I figure she wants
me. But she’s fuckin the Jewish guy from
Colorado. “You need some flavor in
your life,” I tell her while we walk down
Camino Real, dodging Cholula’s construction.
“Oh, but he’s cute.”
She grabs my waist to hug me and smiles.
Sometimes she lays her head on my hip
bone while Noah, the white guy, lays his
head in her lap. “I’m your favorite American, right?”
I ask. “Yes, but Noah’s really cool too. He has a
“So what, I have poetry.”
“I write songs which are kind of like poetry.”
I don’t argue. He has a point.
I call him “suckypants” from now on.
The three of us lie in the grass by the lake
bathing in the sun and I imagine her without
clothes lying between my legs.
Sometimes she quotes poetry and calls me
“Beauty and Truth”
She majors in literature. “I fuckin love
Emily Dickinson!” she tells me over and over.
“I am Nobody! Who are you?
Are you Nobody too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell!” she grabs my arm
tight with conviction.
Sometimes I share my poetry with her
ay, no hay más para darte
because I am lost and no quiero
que me encuentres, solo que te quedes
dentro de mí con tus árboles, cálidos
y dulces, como el verano se cae
en las hojas de carmesí y ambarina.
“Joder, Lucrecia, I fuckin love it.”
And sometimes she invites me over.
Her eyes are bright mahogany and brimming.
She has a completely withered red
rose in a Ciel water bottle sin agua
on the desk by her bed. She has raven black
sheets. I move her backpack out the way and
sit. She talks to her plants outside her window
She has a plant with yellow blossoms in the shape
of tiny purses that remind her of her abuela.
“They’re so fuckin dry!” We’re in the center
of Mexico, in the mountains, the air
is arid and the sun is stark, I tell her.
Sometimes she reads me Mexican poetry
in her Spanish accent.
“I fuckin love this poem.”
She takes out her bag of tobacco to roll
her own cigarette but she’s out of paper.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck”
She digs and digs in her purse and pulls out
a pre-rolled cigarette and lights it. She blows
the smoke away from me as she reads
Hay un tigre en la casa
huele la sangre aun a través del vidrio
percibe el miedo desde la cocina
The smoke swirls and I lean in to take
it all in. Her accent. Her tongue snaking
through her teeth. Her essence. Lilith.
Los crisoles de saliva emponzoñada
de sus fauces.
The burning tobacco fragrances fresh
light and inviting
Ni siquiera lo huelo
para que no me mate.
I think of the pink tiger in this room.
Hay un inmenso tigre encerrado
en todo eso.
I imagine if I close the door what could take
place. Her voz excites me, I wonder how
she moans. Noah knows. Suckypants.
Que tanto y tanto amor
y tanto vuelo entre unos cuerpos
The cigarette has burnt out now
but the scent lingers on her lips
tanto imposible amor inexpresable,
nos vuelva tontos, monos sin sentido.
I fantasize her cuerpecito vainilla against
the raven sheets, unshaven and full woman
I dream of her contrasting with my bronze, tangled
Es esto… lo que duele.
Sometimes she tells me about her French ex-boyfriend
and I tell her about a recent Brazilian ex-lover.
“These people, they’re explosions in our lives
atomic bombs and we’re left with sizzled skin,
flames still brewing us deep blue,” I say.
She lends me an anthology of Mexican poets,
Sometimes she reads a poem from her journal.
“Do you do collaborations?” I want her
Spanish to swirl with my English.
“No, I don’t think about it.” She looks down, shrugs
and throws the journal on her bed.
Sometimes she takes me to lectures for literature majors.
Most times I just want to fuck her.