The Marine
Sundays my father made us chorizo
we still begged to skip church
four bad kids in line for communion,
recanting silence
seeing the backs of our neighbors, the lint on their shoulders
we walked down the pews like seasons and years
One spring morning
instead of mass
my father ran the city’s 10k
we’ve lost his boxes of medals
the paper from 1982 of his smile, those perfect big teeth
you could see his sweat
this beautiful mexican racing against the sheriff department
and the mayor’s court of farmers, miners, the …