Three Poems by Alejandro Murguia

Big Girls Donít Cry I warned you itíd be hard Loving a man whose pockets Flap empty of change One who works under cars Yet wants to squeeze your waist With iron hands Someone who absent five months Shows up without calling, just appears On your porch, rings your doorbell And wants all of you- Now, this instant, as if he owned You on the hallway carpet Or the kitchen table, who smokes Cohibas when heís talking And spits them out when heís done A man that doesnít know how to lose Wonít take no and yes is dangerous A rouge, a scoundrel, a pirate Who still sleeps with his ex-wife But calls you his muŮeca Then leaves at dawn a fugitive Without a word because You said you were a big girl Knew what you were getting into I warned you itíd be rough Now come here and kiss me.
Detalles What matters is the particulars the precise meaning in your words --I love the specificity of detail. I remember January drenched with lemon blossoms your hip pressing mine a certain desperation in your smile. Years later the memories still arouse the sassy diction of your walk your leather jacket but I didnít surrender till you snapped open the red umbrella no butterflies flew out but I like to think they did. I canít deny the bridge lights prismed in your eyes had something to do with it how your black seamed stockings flowed like crazy punctuation to my hand prints on your ass the profane unction of our act holy when performed by lovers your happy cry and my sad laughter twined in a wax calendar your whispered vow before an altar of hummingbirds and paper corazones --I will never leave you. Never. Minor details of our bruised affair. The anklet with my name in what drawer do you keep it?
The Poet Recalls His First Reading Riding home from celebrating my first book compadre riding shotgun our lids heavy with poems and tequila in beat up sports car crawling towards Bernal Heights dawn a spider with a thousand legs of light A black-and-white flashing triple strobes angry no doubt at Latinos riding around this hour of morn instead of heading to work pulled us over Compadre and I exchanged glances as other encounters with billy clubs handcuffs and broken ribs surfaced from our suddenly awake memories Without license, nor proof of birth I proved my name by reciting a poem while badge 8601 followed along in my proud book digging my rhymes After my impromptu reading 8601 returned to patrol car while I winked at compadre thinking weíre cool with the heat so I never saw olí 8601 slide up my window like a snake and jam the 357 magnum to my temple the barrel cold as a pinpoint of ice I could feel the gun trembling in his hand As his words pressed through lips tighter Than a chicken butt-Youíve a red warrant. Move and Iíll blow your fucking head off. I slanted my eyes at him and replied --Be cool. Iím not that bad a poet. Alejandro Murguia