The Brazos
On a bender in Richmond the river bellows
filthy corridos then drops his pants and assumes
a stance, the last thing he remembers before everything
goes black. Coming to, there’s no ignoring
the nasty gash and disgorged issue stinking in the flat
light of day. Fetal curl around the oxbow, moaning
low beyond the cotton woods, he cradles
the battered face of Richmond Trailer Village
and murmurs something in Spanish, metallic
exhalations that sound to me like words of regret,
a man who may not speak the language,
but knows his constellations, the accumulation
of old scars on her once pretty face.
