I am the Perfect Mexican Son
I can
shoot a coin
fixed to a tree
with sap, restrain
a pig by the corner
of its eye socket,
skin and eviscerate
a cow without flinching
at its warm dying
smell, its blood
spattered at my feet.
My father has promised
to kill for his family,
should the need arise.
I have promised
to help him,
which makes me
less of a maricón
than my brother. He
only watches as my father
and I chew limes,
relishing green bitterness
and the burning softness
of a good tequila drained
with ease, experience.
I rinse the glasses. We both
remember what I am.
