If the gullet
of a brown
man is pink,
he must
be born
of salt.
Before hanging,
his back
must be
strict as
leather pleated by
a cherry
knife—blue light
must swallow
his angels
to their bones.
911 give me
your angels
in neon boots.
The wind
blew hay-fire
westward,
the match lit
with a knife.
Pleading, the man
will run
to the closet.
He will
find himself &
his name
slit open, nuestros
abuelos doused
in gasoline
smelling ripe
as tangerine.
My mother
recognizes him
in a photograph
taken & spit
onto industrial
concrete, his nod
the eternal
yes, resting
in glorious
benediction. Martyr
of us all.
If the death
of a brown
man is newsprint,
then his children
must reply
in the tongue
of the colonizer:
I would
rather drink
the Salton Sea
than let
America love me.