Unaccompanied. Javier Zamora

skip toes in my chest, Salvador.

      I’m done been the shortest shore.

      ¿And did you love all the self out of you for me?

      I want you to torch the thatch above my head.

      To be estero. To be mangroves.

      There are mornings I wake with taste of tortillas in warmed-up milk.

      There are pomegranates no one listens to.

      ¿Is this the mierda you imagined for me?

      Everywhere is war.

      The patch of dirt I pumped water from to bathe.

      Chickens, dogs, parakeets, this was my block.

      The one I want to shut off with rain.

      Where I want to plant an island.

      Barrio Guadalupe hijueputa born and bred cerote ¿qué onda?

      The most beautiful part of my barrio was stillness

      and a rustling of wings caught in the soil calling me to repair it.

      Don’t tell me I didn’t bring the estero up north where there’s none.

      I’ve walked uptown. I saw Mrs. Gringa.

      The riff between my fingers went down in whirlpools.

      Silence stills me. Pensé quedarme aquí I said.

      I don’t understand she said. From my forehead,

      the jaw of a burro, hit on the side and scraped by a lighter to wake the song

      that speaks two worlds.

      The kind of terrifying current.

      The kind of ruinous wind.

       Instructions for My Funeral

      Don’t burn me in no steel furnace, burn me

      in Abuelita’s garden. Wrap me in blue-

      white-and-blue [ a la mierda patriotismo ].

      Douse me in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,

      don’t judge my home. Cut my bones

      with a machete till I’m finest dust

      [ wrap my pito in panties so I dream of pisar ].

      Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.

      Steal a flask and stash me inside. Blast music,