Caballero

Only symmetry harbors loss.

—Lorna Dee Cervantes

 

 

            Throatlatch.

Crupper. Martingale. Terret. My breath

                        tightens around him,

                                                like a harness. Once a year

        he eats a spoonful of dirt

            from his father’s grave.

                                                            In his sleep

                                                he mutters lines

                                                            from his favorite flick,

                                                Capulina

 

            Contra Los Vampiros.

Summers he hunts underground water with a

                        dowsing rod made

                                                from the sun-bleached spine

        of a wolf. When a word stalls

            on his tongue he utters,

                                                            Sufferin succotash.

                                                Stout. Apache-

                                                            dark. Curious

                                                and quick.

            He builds up the bridge

of his nose with clay. Mornings he sings: Dices

                        que me quieres pero

                                                mi tienes trabajando. He spits

        into a tin cup each time

            lightning strikes. In the small

                                                            of his back I bury

                                                my hands. Once,

                                                            lost in the desert,

                                                he ate beak-

            punctured pitayas;

pissed on his fingers to keep them warm. Weekly

                        he plays poker with other

                                                mojados. The winning hands

        teach him more English. Sawmill.

            Three Kings. Presto.

                                                            He pronounces

                                                my name beautifully.

                                                            His thumb: flecha

                                                de sal,

            gancho de menta.

In Nogales he bought a whisky-colored mutt.

                        He named it Nalgas.

                                                He slipped a canary into

        his father’s coffin: its pecking,

            its hunger, smoothing

                                                            the creases

                                                of the face.

                                                            With an old sock

                                                and black coffee

            he polishes his boots.

Rosa salvaje. Corazón salvaje. The inner-

                        most part of a castle

                                                is the keep. Andale, pues.

        When I ride him at night I call out

            the name of his first horse.