Triptych of the Adobe-Cotta Army, los frijoles ya se quemaron, & Apology to Her Majesty, Queen Cardi B
Triptych of the Adobe-Cotta Army
East Palo Alto, Circa 2000 AD
My fingers are desperate
to unearth the ruins
of my countrymen.
Only to find a Tesla
on the second floor
of our apartments
—now a parking garage.
The Amazon logo
smirks above me,
like a biblical cloud.
*
Out here, hooded saints
tore the covenant
of earthly silence.
Passed out Zig-Zag
leaflets, to preach
the gospel of skin.
Whirling dervishes
in long white tees,
bum-rushed me
at a bautizo. Pressed
against my lips,
the cholo chalice
kill it blood.
My chest flushed
at watching boys bronze
into adobe-cotta.
A driveway floodlight,
the barrio’s moon,
casted their bodies.
As they placed bets
against the armors they carried.
A fist tucked
inside a hoodie,
his knuckles spelling
the names of ex-lovers.
Each letter tatted
with a rusted clip.
Cocked belt-buckle
whose colors shouted
to the block
who he fucks with.
Until asphalt swallows
him again, and Marías
now mourn Jesús
outside a sagging fence.
Wreathe his chain-
link with lit candles,
cardboard signs saying
“We miss you.” Streamers
without the heated balloon
that promised flight.
*
Consider the clothesline as a bandolier
slung over weathered soldiers,
whose uniformes still clung
to apartment balconies.
Quien cedieron sus tierras
to raise the wrinkled flags
of blusas and neon vests.
Consider this Aztec sacrifice:
a father offers an empire
his daily flesh. Kneels
on the melted tar
of its tongue, winces
at the body turned legal (tender).
All to nurse the newborn
with this vision,
una vida mejor.
And so Father cradled my head
inside asphalt. Prayed
for our rite
to simply wade.
los frijoles ya se quemaron
voy
a tenderlos,
as suitcases chuckle
through our home.
sobres stashed
in gabinetes, cash
in chamarras.
mamá inside her black
mustang, rezando
bluetooth misteros
con cuñadas.
what’s changed,
i think
es que ahora,
la creo.
that in reno
or fresno, or
the broad shoulders
of a califas carretera
is her—
a fitted red dress,
botas de tacón,
freshly dyed hair
blushing—
at the nights
that paint
her face
con la misma fé
she once had
for these walls,
burgundy,
off white,
rosita.
that is to say,
i wish i’d been there
amá,
by your side
in the courtroom,
when apá buried
his face
inside the bench.
realizing then, he
wasn’t the sole owner
of this house
named grief.
cómo quisiera
levantar
su cara,
para que viera
the broken pieces
of me,
on car seats
& bedsides—
where the water broke
from your eyes,
birthed me
a man—
& see, the exact moment
i buried
my boyhood,
amá sabrá
que hacer.
Apology to Her Majesty, Queen Cardi B
Whereas Jimmy prolly can’t pronounce
your name; whereas that green mink’s
mad loud for primetime yuppies; whereas
pasty mugs quietly sipped the Bronx
in a canned Q&A; whereas tickle-me-
white, the color they blushed
after you hollered, Eyyuum!;
whereas was it with, or against you?
Whereas dey prolly ain’t ever seen
homegirls wreathe you
as their patron-saint—
lil’ Lauras wit dey laurels,
whose mouths run the block
searing chisme over hot concrete
and toe straps; whereas blessed b
the scented velas of acetone and plugged-in irons;
and still you trill
the hymns of jainas;
You who told the limelight,
Don’t get too close cuz I ain’t put
no lotion on my hand; whereas se ríen
as you explain your name, how Henny’s
the suture of Black and Brown hands
who killed a forty for each hour
on the job, who lick wounds
with liquor’s promise of numb;
whereas the smh tías who gawk
at the peacock tat running your thighs,
and sigh, cómo hemos caído; whereas
that part in “Motorsport,” where you bent
in front of butterfly doors, hollered,
I’m the trap Selena!; whereas the bark
that tickles my skin, as it does in the shade,
when me and the fellas untuck
the gaze we’ve longed to spliff all week;
whereas errtime I aimed homeboy’s head
like a slingshot, a young women-turned
pair-of-legs passing through the quad,
and eyes carve onto bare flesh;
whereas I chewed a human being
with a dangling mouth,
and called her redbone, feigned
to stare at the dead men
she hefted; whereas I respected
the spine of a book, the tattered
cloth of hardcover,
more than her own.
Whereas these temples of Hoteps
whet teeth with passed-down
stones, our crumbling masonry,
beret down plazas chanting
freedom, yet in dorm parties
bite off a brother’s tongue,
so he speaks nothing
but our worst hungers;
that snarl, who’s the lookout
today, as we try to outsmoke
each other, for the dogs we is.
May I catch the fang she spits
back, chew on my own question
No, are you with or against?
And I too am inside that studio,
clapping with them.
Therefore, be it resolved, Cardi,
Queen of the Bronx, this apology:
may the two-legged perros
claw this gangrene out,
so the tender vespers
that flock our word
not recite our catechisms.
May you, and all the women
who’ve guided my life,
never see the eyes
I once hawked.
Antonio López received his BA in global cultural studies and African-American studies from Duke University. He’s received scholarships to attend the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley, the Home School, Tin House Summer Workshop, the Key West Literary Seminar, and the Vermont Studio Center. A proud Macondista (2018) and CantoMundo Fellow (2019), his nonfiction has been featured in PEN America and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Palette Poetry, BOAAT Press, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Acentos Review, Permafrost, Huizache, Tin House, and elsewhere. He received his master of fine arts in poetry at Rutgers University in Newark.
