Little Mexican Girls
Little Mexican girls have found me.
They throw away their dolls and jog in circles around me.
They laugh in a disconcerting dialect.
Their pointy little teeth chatter like wind-up toys.
Their eyes are clocks with out of control hands.
Little Mexican girls, your architecture is strange!
I am foundering in a field.
Seeing me do so, the little Mexican girls pick me up and pass me around
like a babe in a basket.
They don’t care that I’m a grown man.
I am not their first grownup.
They handle me like over-confident med students hiding their fears.
They pull off one of my arms, my right one.
It was an accident.
The world has not shown them how to be gentle.
Nothing is their fault.
As they try to stick my arm back on,
one of my eyes, my left one,
inadvertently pops out and rolls down a hole.
Seeing me fall to pieces and no longer new
as I was mere moments before,
they carry on with a more deliberate brutality.
They fill my mouth with dirt and worms.
They jam a rock in my eye and turn it back and forth.
They slide a stick into my anus and hang a garland of petunias from it.
They drag me across the field,
through the grass and mud,
over broken bottles and twisted wire, burnt tires
and other grown men like myself whom they love no more.