He calls me boricua, with his Ziploc bag of sugar
and his metal toy gun.
La Isla de Encanta, popping plastic caps,
Encanta, he says, who fucked you up?
Clotting fake blood streaks my arms. I say,
the real question is, who'd I fuck up. Plastic knife
bends at the tip. They laugh, delighted. La Isla,
car crash and coquí frog outside the white screenless windows.
Canned spaghettios, I sat on a pick-up-sticks pile of sugar cane,
I wrapped myself in a hammock, lizard teeth biting my tío's earlobes.
Bang bang and some dope, but Encanta, he's sincere. |
