to reach el punto past
the cliffs -- fifty meters
of rock above
the ocean		do not 
speed up or you will meet
an untimely death

far out, en el punto,
men devour
another. an older man
teaches me		this freedom

callado

varonil

no afeminados

casado

ven atrás el árbol,
in the shadow
to watch our shadows

come nearer

do not look into the eyes	

                                           no questions

do not touch the face
                                           no talking

do not caress			    
                                           the body		

makes you a maricón cabrón
mamar en el punto.

maricón,
pull yourself together
no kissing
no make belief

give each other breath

i come
behind the tree
afraid, the man before me will
beat me to death. if i do this properly,
i can get away.

i recall how papi once said
never look into the eyes

he told me this at the age of seven,
bald like a cowboy

thinking he could strike it
from me. still, i return wanting
the body broken open,

this is my business now:
i want to look into the soul

to hold a face
let me caress an arm

maricón		
at the mouth,
the words		
in the throat

¿quieres que te lo mamen?

i want a kiss that breaks the dark
pass breath under the smoke

no matter

come free me
this body that is not mine

let me help you reach your limit
when the moon reaches its apex

i know this already:
how the dark keeps scoring.

i promise you

if i tell your secret
you will kill me

cara de macho

how i like my men
the shame in them
caught in the throat -- asphyxiated

in the dark

murdered

in the alcove


no weapon			bare hands

knuckles

if i don’t die here

i will die somewhere
in the mountains

fucked beyond repair

face
unrecognizable

casado

the butcher at the end of the street,
married

seeking sweet relief in the middle of the night.

       in the morning,
       before he uses his hands,
       he goes
       to la panadería,
       fills
       the kitchen table
       el colmado on the list,
       on the list, to pick up
       his daughter
       from school
       his thoughts venture
       to the night
       he drives ten miles
       to el punto
       every other night
       thinks he’s out
       jodiendo
       con amigos

it is all the same—
men smell of beer and piss.

having lived in a fisherman’s town,
guánica is a bay that glimmers under
a white, exhausted sun.

by morning,
the bay still holds its beauty,
perhaps because the town remains
in stasis. men swallowing medalla 
a mouth opening

outside of it,
the mountains draw the rain windwards—

it is not enough
during the dry season
to quell the mountain fires

it is still, and the waters are calm
it is always still by morning

at night, there is beauty
at the mouth of guánica,

murder here
and blood still warm