Poems are bullshit unless they are

Hot meals on high chairs, or high

Heels pounding across Avenue B

apartments with Puerto Rican Grandmothers,

“principes” y “hijas de la gran puta” grinding

oregano en manos y pilons. Fuck poems

useful as mayan calendars and fertility

statues. Would they bring home crack-

ed eggs, hot Henny breath at the nape

of your neck. Slow pull

leather belts away from high

trousers after a day of men’s work.

We want thrashing hips and thick thighs in Rainbow

Salchichon casings. We want them heavy

like the silence at a WASP dinner table.

We want them violent like the WASP

after a few drinks. Black eyes and head

aches. Heated hearts and stolen psyches

te odío/quiero when youre on

your knees. Scratched tired knees

that weren’t made for going up

stairs. We want poems that stain

like the blood on those stairs.