I am the Perfect Mexican Son

Wednesday, January 15, 2014
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.
 
 
 
 
Wednesday, January 15, 2014