Men that big shouldn’t be shot down

But deployment to redeployment,

Surface-to-air missiles

It’s just a matter of time
He was the second coming of Fernando Valenzuela

bringing the heat, teaching me the four-seam

sneaking me spiked punch at birthdays

Making me a witness to when he hung his eggs

over the bridge on the freeway

Shouting at the oncoming traffic to take him all in

Shouting at me when I wouldn’t do the same
No worries, primo, he says,

Even though he’s thicker in the waist

And he won’t ever step on a plane

And there’s this fucking ringing that’s

not happening right now, but wait,

haha, there it is again
I don’t mind, primo, he says—

It’s summer and we’re two beers deep

Looking for a third in his old Firebird

Trying to outrun the smell of

open-air garbage and jet fuel

The cicadas and their horrible sound

The humidity
When it’s time to fuel up, he asks if I can get it

He takes the back of my hand

and presses it to his forehead, skin to skin and says

Since I’ve been back, it’s the strangest thing

Every time I put gas in the pussy wagon

All that comes out is blood

No gas, just blood

The smell, texture, look

Hella blood
What do you tell a person with a curse they can’t lift?

You take it in, let the quiet hang, laugh

And believe them when they say no worries

and that it’s the strangest thing

and they really don’t mind

and hope it’s something another beer can fix