la pelea

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ANTONIO LOPEZ

 
 

golden boy lands a hook!

i take un trago y grito,

but spit up an english

 

that now tastes

like flat beer.

 

i cup

tío nacho’s modelo,

sweating neck numbs

mis dedos, jam

 

my chewed nail

under the tab, & sip—

 

the drunken chants—

                                                                                                                                  the malted honey

that teems my tongue

                                                                                                                                           to pry open

 

the bronze-kissed mouths

who’ve waged all week

for the grainless display

of pay-per-view.

 

i watch the pixel

fire flies that light up

their sawdust boots.

 

how it draws them.

 

they stand by

mexican ringside—

the backyard botanas

of tajín’d pepinos

& dying charcoal.

 

slouched at the ready

for de la hoya to swing

at sugar shane.

 

i lean back,

recite the chispas

de frases that brush off

their bigotes,

 

& hope to connect

a sentence.