Eduardo C. Corral

For Arthur Russell All that glitters isn’t music. Once, hidden in tall grass, I tossed fistfuls of dirt into the air: doe after doe of leaping. You said it was nothing but a trick of the light. Gold curves. Gold scarves. Am I not your animal? You’d wait in the orchard for hours to watch a deer break from the shadows. You said it was like lifting a cello out of its black case.

Less lonely, less . . . I gave you a tiny box. You lifted the lid, praised the usefulness of my gift: a silver pin shaped like an amper- sand. As you fastened it to your lapel, I thought again of that motel outside of Chicago. ¿Te acuerdas? I sat on the edge of a bench, untied my shoes. Face down, eyes shut, you breathed in the aroma of sweat & allspice coming off the sheets. I tossed my ring—gold, inscribed—toward a pile of clothes. But the ring dropped in the small of your back where it rattled & rattled like a coin in a beggar’s cup.

I only recognized your hair: short, neatly combed. Our mother would’ve been proud. In the Sonoran desert your body became a slaughter- house where faith and want were stunned, hung upside down, gutted. We were taught to bring roses, to aim for the bush. Remember? You tried to pork a girl’s armpit. In Border Patrol jargon, the word for border crossers is the same whether they’re alive or dead. When I read his flesh fell off the bones, my stomach rumbled, my mouth watered. Yesterday, our mother said, “My high heels are killing me. Let’s go back to the funeral.” You were always her favorite. Slow cooking a roast melts the tough tissue between the muscle fibers; tender meat remains. Remember the time I caught you pissing on a dog? You turned away from me. In the small of your back I thought I saw a face. Split lip, broken nose. It was a mask. I yanked it from your flesh. I wear it often.

All zodiac all radar your voice I carried it across the Atlantic to Barcelona I photographed cathedrals cacti mosaic salamanders I even photo- graphed my lust always your voice skimming a woman’s skin mattress springs so noisy so birdlike you filled her room with cages camera bright in my pocket map unfolding in my mind I explored a park leaves notched & enormous graffitied boulders then three men tall & clean closed in they broke open my body with their fists insufferable your red wool cap insufferable the way you walked away from me come back please the buttons on your jacket are finches I wanted to yell as you vanished into a hotel to drink with your friends there was nothing more you could do after my attackers left before I got up I touched my face almost tenderly

Humane Borders Water Station, 2004, by Delilah Montoya Far from highways I flicker gold the whispering gasoline if  I pinch her nipples too hard no joy for her no joy for me so I practice on ticks press them just so so they give but do not burst beneath my boots thistle & puncture vine a wild horse asleep on all fours its shadow still grazing my lips black meat my tongue black meat in my backpack sardine tins saltines & a few cough drops the moon is my library there’s a glacier inside a grain of salt do you understand I’m sorry my Albanian isn’t very good tremble if  God forgets you tremble if  God remembers you out of clay I shape sparrows I glaze their bills & claws I give them names like gossamer inglenook lagoon she bathed a trumpet in milk her tenderness acoustic & plural her pupils perched in all that green there’s nudity around the corner bones cracked & iridescent sometimes it rains so hard even the moon puts on a raincoat zinc razz zinc jazz I notch my arms I notch my thighs five six days I score my skin but not the back of my knees two ovals two portraits my son at ten his eyes ablaze my son at one his eyes shut once I dressed him in burlap once bicycles & marbles once I tore rain out of a parable to strike down his thirst

After Rita Dove Apá, dying is boring. To pass las horas, I carve our last name all over my body. I try to recall the taste of  Pablo’s sweat. Whiskey, no. Wet dirt, sí. I stuff  English into my mouth, spit out chingaderas. Have it your way. Home of the Whopper. Run for the border. ¡Aguas! The mirror betrayed us. It erased your face from my face. Gave me mother’s smile, narrow nariz. Once, I wore her necklace. The gold slick, obscene. God, I was beautiful. Cada noche, I sleep with dead men. The coyote was the third to die. Your money is still in his wallet. Quien engaña no gana. Apá, there’s a foto, in my bolsillo, of a skeleton shrouded in black flames: Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. Patron saint of smugglers, pick- pockets, & jotos. La Flaca. Señora Negra. La Huesuda. ¡Aguas! An animal is prowling this station. It shimmies with hunger. It shimmers with thirst. To keep it away, I hurl my memories at it. Your laughter is now snagged on its fangs. Your pain now breathes inside its lungs. Taste the feeling. Siempre Coca-Cola. America’s real choice — I gathered & smashed bottles. Apá, follow the glass snaking from the barrel to a mesquite to find my body. Lips blue, skin thick with scabs. Apá, kneel in the shade, peel the scabs. Touch our last name. Solís.

In the desert, the moon shivers. Tonight, to stay awake, I’ll cut my feet with glass. Outside Oaxaca, in a clinic, my mother said, “I hate your Indian face.” In the dream I’m running. My limbs skeletal and scabbed. After my mother’s death, I found, in a box, her wedding dress. As I lifted the lid, a stench corkscrewed into my nostrils: the dress had curdled like milk. During the day I gather tinder. Paper. Shed snakeskin. When the last light above the mountains knots into stars, I crouch under mesquite, make a fire. Sometimes the moon stops shivering. Sometimes I tally what I owe. In the dream I’m running through a hallway. The floor uneven. The walls green. Last month, as my son blew out the candles on his cake, I noticed, for the first time, the hideous shape of his nose. Tonight I’ll pinch my thighs to stay awake. My mother, in the clinic, said, “The rain has a fever, it needs plenty of rest, it needs to drink plenty of water.” The doctor scribbled in a file then asked for more money. If my mother could see me now! My feet bloody. My face darker than ever. Tonight, to stay awake, I’ll sit close to the fire. In the dream I stumble, but I never let go of my right breast: an urn heavy with my own ashes, an urn I’m lugging God-knows-where.

After Don McKay I crawl back       he unpacks his tools oils the wooden handles        rinses the metal fragrant       his thighs fragrant his sneer koi & eternity inked on his skin          an ecstatic blue a bewildered green some wounds are ovals some wounds are opals the ears of a white wolf pivot        toward the moon I flee now & then         alone in the desert for months a nomad in a kimono of pressed-together dust beautiful his throat his words         even more beautiful “it’s my turn to ask for a bit more from you” he likes it when I bleed         strangers once gently he hammers gold into a sentence       gently the sentence enters me

in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers, unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño. If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm into a jar of water. The silver letters on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once, borracho, at dinner, he said: Jesus wasn’t a snowman. Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States. Frijolero. Greaser. In Tucson he branded cattle. He slept in a stable. The horse blankets oddly fragrant: wood smoke, lilac. He’s an illegal. I’m an Illegal-American. Once, in a grove of saguaro, at dusk, I slept next to him. I woke with his thumb in my mouth. ¿No qué no tronabas, pistolita? He learned English by listening to the radio. The first four words he memorized: In God We Trust. The fifth: Percolate. Again and again I borrow his clothes. He calls me Scarecrow. In Oregon he picked apples. Braeburn. Jonagold. Cameo. Nightly, to entertain his cuates, around a campfire, he strummed a guitarra, sang corridos. Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States. Greaser. Beaner. Once, borracho, at breakfast, he said: The heart can only be broken once, like a window. ¡No mames! His favorite belt buckle: an águila perched on a nopal. If he laughs out loud, his hands tremble. Bugs Bunny wants to deport him. César Chávez wants to deport him. When I walk through the desert, I wear his shirt. The gaze of the moon stitches the buttons of his shirt to my skin. The snake hisses. The snake is torn.