The Culture of My Men

You are not from the culture of my men.

You have charm that does not whistle or honk at my features. Instead, you praise the thickness of my thighs with a poem from your own lips.

You do not attempt to impress my father by talking sports. Instead, you listen to him complain about work and prompt him to persist in venting; remembering every detail.

You do not pick the pieces of my broken life and judge their placement. Instead, you have allowed all those experiences to be everything you love about me.

You do not dare bother with other guys in my life, as if they mean to hurt us. Instead, you embrace my personality and encourage human connection.

You welcome every one with a handshake and a thank you, pridefully practicing a language foreign and unnatural to your lips. 

You are not entertained by the simple minded, yet care for all the simple pleasure. You stare into the silence and do not dare interrupt it.

You have eyes that split into rays of the sun. Colors that grasp for my brown and highlight your hazel. Laugh lines that could hold fields of flowers. A toothy grin with a suspect of suspense, while you suckle on your bottom lip. Cheeks that have seen repair. Ears that have heard beats of a busted drum. Thin cookie-colored hair that toasted perfectly in your mother’s womb. And a thin frame, not muscular enough to be manly, too tall to be usual, too light to be Latino, but beautiful; so beautiful. And yet not… not of the culture of my men.


Secret Affair

The night that we shared cannot be replaced.

A hiccup in time, a change of our fate

A secret affair that I cannot face.


We met at the party and had some drinks

I had grazed your body, then held your cheek.

The night that we shared cannot be replaced.


We exchanged numbers and laughed at others

I felt a connection, but was it real?

A secret affair that I cannot face.


Your body, your touch, the sensation I felt

At three in the morning our bodies raced.

The night that we shared cannot be replaced.


A passion never to be felt again.

Oh, your kiss! How I wish this were all real!

A secret affair that I cannot face.


I leave in the morning, before dawn speaks

Go down the stairs and head back to my place.

The night that we shared cannot be replaced

A secret affair that I cannot face.

She Sees Beauty

She is the thrift store painting of the flowers in a cup. You’ve seen her pull them on your walks. Her eyes light up and she reaches for the mundane but picks peculiar. She sees heaven in her flower and hands it to you. And now that she has seen your soul, she paints it brighter than you’ve ever known.

Tell Me

Tell me what you wanted to say. 

Make it as good as when you practiced it in the mirror when you convinced yourself it was the right thing to do. 

Was my reaction everything you expected it would be?

Tell me what you wanted to say.

Dig into the deepest breath you can take and release me from the chambers of your heart. Filter the blood you and I shared and push me out like a plague in your platelets. 

Take another drink. Dilute your body with the high spirits just so that you can drown out the sounds of your own voice saying goodbye. 

Your words float in the air between us and fall flat on the ground with a heavy thud, like the sound of a shoe stomping on a little bug.