In Memory

.

Abel was on the north corner of central plaza

in El Paso when we met.  Eighteen, already adept

at selling skin to one-eyed sirens.

I am hard at it Ese, was his first answer.

I do it for my family on the other side, was his pitch.

Amigos? Amigos are dead presidents in my pocket.

I like work, but breathing hurts when I don’t eat.

Early the next morning, I passed through the plaza

of poorly-paid services and noticed him lying on a bench

resting the smile of a child who forgot who he was.

He wanted Nikes, so I gave in. Bought him a suitcase,

filled it with angry tears and a camera, then took him back

to Chihuahua. I made him take snapshots of los hijos de puta.

When his mother called, the constant fear of the 80s

got in the backseat of my car. I didn’t want to know.

It stayed until he died the following year.

A few tears were gathered here and there;

I sewed them each to each and made a rosary.

Looking at it makes me think of a poem by Fernando Pessoa,

O Infante. my child, my prince.

©  Sergio A. Ortiz, Publisher, Flutter Press and Origami Condom, 2009