In a 90’s TV special, Chris Rock smirks at us, paces the stage in his leather / jacket, and declares he’d never hit a woman—but he’d shake the shit out of her!

I heard the nurses’ laughter. I could see them rub the hems / Of their skirts into their bottle-cap glasses while translating / My new parents’ imagination. 

yo se perder, yo se perder / black as a young moon, I / am spoken to in English, / the third tongue, / final conquest, never mistaken / for indigenous, never pain, / never daughter of woman / who hums mariachi songs / in crowded restaurants, / skimming lyrics in favor / of memory; / 

Picture your grandmother holding her purse to her side with both hands. On a street full / of traffic, horns.  Beggars and bottles on the sidewalk.  She tells you not to stop at the coo / of each pigeon. That you’re going to miss the bus. 

Picture the dog again shifting between cars and buses, dodging. That dog. Remember?  / The one that was chasing pigeons, butterflies, lizards, cars?  The one with the spot on its / nose.  The one without a collar, wandering the streets. That one. It’s still hungry. 

The first time I use spray paint, I’m with Jimmy / Henderson and Rolando Rodriguez. The store / 
Clerk senses that our fingers are ready to pull / A trigger and picks out the colors.  We carry / 
Our ammunition in our backpacks. Jimmy / Wants the first hit to be for revenge: the corner / 
Market that fired his brother for not showing / Up to work. Six times. Rolando wants us / To mark spots where the girls will see them.