In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes

in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers,

unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño.

If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm

into a jar of water. The silver letters

on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once, borracho,

at dinner, he said: Jesus wasn’t a snowman.

Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed

into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.

Frijolero. Greaser. In Tucson he branded

cattle. He slept in a stable. The horse blankets

oddly fragrant: wood smoke, lilac. He’s an illegal.

I’m an Illegal-American. Once, in a grove

of saguaro, at dusk, I slept next to him. I woke

with his thumb in my mouth. ¿No qué no

tronabas, pistolita? He learned English

by listening to the radio. The first four words

he memorized: In God We Trust. The fifth:

Percolate. Again and again I borrow his clothes.

He calls me Scarecrow. In Oregon he picked apples.

Braeburn. Jonagold. Cameo. Nightly,

to entertain his cuates, around a campfire,

he strummed a guitarra, sang corridos. Arriba

Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed into

a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.

Greaser. Beaner. Once, borracho, at breakfast,

he said: The heart can only be broken

once, like a window. ¡No mames! His favorite

belt buckle: an águila perched on a nopal.

If he laughs out loud, his hands tremble.

Bugs Bunny wants to deport him. César Chávez

wants to deport him. When I walk through

the desert, I wear his shirt. The gaze of the moon

stitches the buttons of his shirt to my skin.

The snake hisses. The snake is torn.