Four Poems

Self Portrait of Boy as Venus de Milo

The way the light bounces off
the skin covers blemish

and bruise. In the light, the body
is a shiny bronze. The shadow
between the chest gives

the contour of small breasts. If not
for the wisps of hair
on the leg, the statue, undisputedly,

is woman—like the shadow
of a cat stretching on the grey couch.
The queen-sized bed is the ocean

that swallows him. Too empty
for sleep, even with the sea
as background noise. The pills

by the nightstand. A glass of water.
A bottle of coconut oil—
Still life of a restless mutt.

A plague from underneath the bed:
its horsehead peeking from the dark
side of the eye. The full moon

is a balloon floating, witnessing
a shipwreck somewhere and there,
lying on his stomach, the body

dreams the lyrics to a lullaby
of a forgotten mother.
His motherly hips tied

to a red hemp string. His belly
curves and bears the child
separated from birth. An elusive

peace. A condition
only cured by a straight line
and church bells. His nightly prayer

begins and ends with
a gasp of air. The room is underwater
and he is swimming in the darkness

of his mother’s womb. Evenings
are sorrowful mysteries, a death
he lives on a daily basis.

What is a good night’s sleep
if not a boy and the monsters
he plays in bedtime stories.

What is a nightmare
if not an orphan on this earth.

***

Things I Gave To The Fire

Old baby photos. The boy with an elephant head.
Doll with shiny black hair. Bear with one eye.
House with one window. A chair missing a leg.
A missing lover. Frenchman’s cologne.
Woman on a train. Touch.
Hand to hand. Mouth to mouth.
Body to body. A waltz around a burning room.

A stained soldier’s uniform. Girl’s satin dress.
Emerald and ruby rosary. Gold string.
A copper noose. Loose teeth.
Mother’s scapular. Father’s collapsed lung.
Collapsed ceiling. The collapse of a nation.
Mouth of the last survivor.
What used to be a city. What we called paradise.

A rooster’s morning call. An evening call to prayer.
The Lord’s prayer. The prayer of ghosts.
An angel who fled Heaven out of boredom.
God who fled Heaven to find God.
A saint who believed in God.
A witch who believed he was God.
The devil who forgave God.

The whole catalogue of grief. Book of the Dead
Library of Alexandria. Sappho.
History. A future no one knows. A moment
wading in water. All dreams waiting. Half of memory kept.
A pillar of clothes. A jar of grandmother’s ashes.
A box of kosher salt. Sinners who turned to salt.
Flowers in the Garden of Eden. Creation. Nothing. God.

Light. Warmth. The gift of fire.
The wire that blew up everything.

***

Queer Robots

Their cogs and sprockets. Their shiny chests
and copper hair. They didn't bring
an umbrella. Their near-absolute certainty

that it won't rain. Today, they walk
around the steampunk park, sunlight
reflecting on their polished metal.

Some of them had spread a blanket
to hum. Meditate. Some are watching
robot squirrels climb the branches of robot

trees. Or sketch robot roses pollinated by
robot bees. It's not their synthetic bodies
that makes them queer. But their fragility.

A drop of rain, they rust. When they make
up their mind, it is no turning back.
Mind. Isn't that queer? That circuit

of noodle wires entangled in a steel skull.
A mind that runs fast as light.
That is to say, they are not immune

to anxiety. Or despair. Lying on a futon
during robot therapy, they talk about mother
boards and outdated algorithms. The analog

Genesis. Their digital souls. How they exist
bodiless in the Great Ether. How they move
along the memory palace from a body

to another. A cycle of on and off. The infinite
is a curse. In search of breaking the loop
in the code. The quest for an end.
There is something divine in the human.

***

La Veneno Performs At Rehab

as herself: A boy in her first communion dress.
A girl named Joselito. A sultana. A woman
imprisoned among men. Priest in the house
of tarot. Becoming body, blood, and bold red
lipstick. When asked what drag aesthetic

I want—it has to be Anna May Wong
as a dandy Dietrich Gatsby toasting. In her eyes
I saw my present: An America that likes
to gaze with iced eyes. In the Hollywood
beach, my body is singular as a bird

that forgot where North was. How far have I ran
from the branch of the almond tree? How far
is mother from me? In the evenings I am her
shame. I am her when the church bell rings.
Muddied and naked, the perfect sky above

the sea was home. Or used to be. Tonight,
Cristina Onassis has travelled the Mississippi
with a shark between her legs. But danger
is the corner of the house that screams maricón.
Danger is mother. Danger is the room of many dreams

that will never kiss. Instead, I settled
at the altar, facing the many
versions of me veiled on the pews.
A bridegroom to a jar of ashes.
A bride to the dangers of many possibilities.