BORICUAMERICANO
When I adjusted to the heat
two days before
I left.
Gabby showed me
coquis sing loudest
by the window.
I heard something familiar
in the bleep of the fire alarm
and tried
replacing the battery.
When I am
on coffee number four.
I have my father’s mouth
whistle through brown slits.
I liked his smile most
when he was around mamí,
his sisters.
When I tell a cig-bummer
of Caguas and sterilization.
Sophia told me she has
never gone home
but plans
this summer
to go there or New York.
Either way she sees family.
When I trace home
above my ass.
I remember it is just
a birth mark.
I can trace agency up
my moles to my mouth
but not always
where it started.
When I have different names
con o sin accento
depending on what would let me
address myself.
I have many aliases
and call myself an impostor,
ripping into myself like a wild dog
rips into an iguana
with a familiar taste.
When I am in the backseat
of Grandpa’s jeep
and the countryside is steep
for a reason.
I will breathe in oil burn
and whip up mayo-ketchup in an hour.
On the ride I see
a horse and Dad and Grandpa
talk about the farm like a lover
I miss it as much as they do
A stop on the hunt for alcapurrias
A free drink
and a keychain.
Free drink and keychain.
Free drink,
keychain.
There is a dog outside
tearin’ apart
a lizard,
yet the bartender gives
us
a free drink
and a keychain.
Free drink and keychain.
Free drink,
keychain.
for charity
for Cristo
for kindness.
For us to buy
another beer.
For us
to eat another mash
of his green
banana dough
and picadillo.
A free drink
and a keychain.
Free drink and keychain.
Free drink,
keychain.
I love The Smoke and my people
I love to smoke
and my people
love to smoke too.
I love my people and the smoke
that fills my people
that turns our lungs
to skin,
freckles alveoli
puts skin tags over
tar build-ups
I love “The Smoke”
these new people
who breathe
like our fathers
who scrape sputum off tongues
and into an ice cream bucket,
into a bloodbag of saline
or into a senator’s mouth
And these new people
with their browning
Lungs and phlegm
still refuse resection
surgery; they know
their own breath.
How a cancer can
live next door
I love The Smoke
and my people
Love The Smoke too.
Every car model is the same if you get to the bones of it
Station wagons used to hold
nine people, roped ‘em
up like stallions
and made ‘em gitty up
to family vacation
in Omaha.
The chassis,
rebuilt.
Still tries pinning
those children
who wiggle about
under layered summer-hot
seat buckles. Leaves
rope burn around
their skinny necks,
cuts into and brands
their t-shirt tags
with promises
of cornucopias,
and gilds of polyester.
Andrés López is an undergraduate writer studying English and Women & Gender Studies at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Andrés’s work covers intersection of queerness and latinidad in America and beyond and has been published in Laurus Literary Magazine and Nude Bruce Review and will be published in forthcoming issues of J Journal, Tough Poets Review, and Polaris. Andrés is now an editor for Laurus and will be editor-in-chief next year.