midwestern skulls for the broken latino
BY ROY G. GUZMÁN
People who crave the jaw
& not the fox’s gentle tail—
his land mine
of teeth; a temporary exit
for those who yearn to return to the coyote’s
tent to reclaim their belongings—
the chopped head, the neck
before it was plucked from the rest of the body
like a hen’s for dinner. Antique shops
for raccoons’ clawed feet;
a necklace
for a woman in labor. After the snow melts
the dead return to their natural habitats—
eyes barely shut under the charcoal, whiskers
trapped in the pinecones.
Some secrets are better rolled into the mouths
of strangers
when they sleep. A father can make up
suffering’s seasons: leave in the afternoon,
then sneak in through a windowless frame—
though these, too, can be called winter & fall
& held by a child’s contemptuous hands
in a garden where only the wind
can be torn from branches.
Did they really mean
to leave us shipwrecked—those sailors
who recognized flesh but not what the flesh
can camouflage? People covet
the mandible as it’s handed down
for all to drink from. In his hands
I appear dead—
but here, here in my chest, is where my father
finds the new continent
of directions measured in forgiveness.
I sleep in the wilderness,
like a fox loitering in a frozen meadow,
& I’ll feed him forgiveness
if he asks.
