The next one was titled "Caballero."
And of course that refers to-- means gentlemen,
if you've been to a Mexican restaurant--
Damas [INAUDIBLE] and caballero.
But it also refers to somebody-- a man-- who is infatuated,
in love, obsessed with horse culture--
horses.
And it begins with an epigraph from one of my formative poets,
Lorna Dee Cervantes.
"Only symmetry harbors loss."
"Caballero."
"Throatlatch.
Crupper.
Martingale.
Terret.
My breath tightens around him, like a harness.
Once a year he eats a spoonful of dirt
from his father's grave.
In his sleep, he mutters lines from his favorite flick--
Capulina Contra Los Vampiros.
Summers, he hunts underground water
with a dowsing rod made from the sun-bleached spine of a wolf.
When a word stalls on his tongue,
he utters, suffering succotash.
Stout, Apache, dark, curious, and quick.
He builds up the bridge of his nose with clay.
Mornings, he sings: Dices que me quieres
pero mi tienes trabajando.
He spits into a tin cup each time lightning strikes.
In the small of his back, I bury my hands.
Once, lost in the desert, he ate beak-punctured pitayas,
pissed on his fingers to keep them warm.
Weekly, he plays poker with other mojados.
The winning hands teach him more English--
sawmill, three kings, presto.
He pronounces my name beautifully.
His thumb, flecha de sal, gancho de menta.
In Nogales, he bought a whiskey colored mutt.
He named it Nalgas.
He slipped a canary into his father's coffin--
its pecking, its hunger, smoothing
the creases of the face.
With an old sock and black coffee, he polishes his boots.
Rosa salvaje.
Corazón salvaje.
The innermost part of a castle is the keep.
Andale, pues.
When I ride him at night, I call out
the name of his first horse."
And that's why my nephew could not take this book--
[LAUGHTER]
--to show and tell.