Nocturne

            Yes, your face like asphalt dust on my tongue

whenever it rains. I’ll say it’s the last time I call,

            tomorrow. In your arms it won’t be the same,

each step farther from the border. Gin and tonics.

            Tequila grapefruits. I threw that black mug

at your face after gin, after tequila, I didn’t know

            Enrique’s Journey would trigger me,

I’m sorry. I drank too much. I drink too much,

            yes, I know. It wasn’t me who threw it,

I said, but it was. It’s me who needs to learn

            how to face grandpa’s bullet shells,

bottles, broken chairs, doors he woke us up with.

            I was four. I saw Mom between his gun

and Grandma. I was four. I need to forgive

            the coins he placed in my hands

to buy him vodka. Grandpa chased every single

            one of his daughters with his machete

in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night,

            I didn’t know what to do except climb

the water tower across the street with Red Power Ranger.

            He’s chased us to this country

that trained him to stay quiet when “his boss”

            put prisoners in black bags, then pushed them

out the truck, “for everyone to see what happens

            to bad people here.” Gin, straight up.

Tequila shots. I’ve picked up the shards in our apartment,

            wiped the black smudge next to our bed,

promised never to do it again, that I’ll seek help,

            but I don’t. I make an excuse. No one understands

why Abuelita never left him. It’s mid-June,

            Venus and Mars the closest they’ve been

in 2,000 years, but I’ve never seen grandparents hug,

            or hold hands. I make an excuse.

You kept rubbing your hands. When I turned six

            grandpa quit drinking. He stayed at home

at night but never talked to us. He didn’t like gin.

            Didn’t like writers. Didn’t like leftists.

Everyone gone except one aunt. You’re not here.

            Tomorrow, tampoco. These walls snore

like grandpa’s slurred shouts. I thought the border

            would take him. All my aunts,

my mom, thought so too. We’re all running

            from the sun on his machete.

The moon on his gun.