Hey, bro!
I did her!
With sunglasses on!
— Memorial Acclamation
Go do it, then,
whatever it is that you do —
sex someone, buy that ring —
film it, even, make
a record of your elementary courage
and then social your accomplishment
to your kind.
After all, you have the keys —
(Secret gesture.
Secret gesture.
Secret gesture!)
— and I should want to be
just
like
you.
But,
no.
If you’re going to do it, hijo,
choose a field where
you will get caught
and shot
and then I’ll know you’re real.
Let your body stand erect
as rifles are raised by priests and soldiers;
stand before their righteous hate, alone,
knowing you die for your desire.
Then I’ll follow.
In your childlike voice:
“It was just a little fun!”
“Why do you have to be so serious?”
Mi pequeñito, you have a thousand ways
to explain your survival —
as his blood sings from Spain,
intones a truth known only to me:
Divinity is a dead body,
sinking and stinking,
unliked and unfriended,
shot by justice,
abhorred by Church,
buried nowhere but my heart.
Cristo amó.
Cristo murió.
Cristo murió.
Located here.
