Pedro Trevino-Ramirez
Portrait of an Inferno in Two Movements
1.
Somewhere off the stony hills, a building burns and I
think of my young hands,
their degrees related to malice, heritage, disintegration
of structure-
dull black, ash, the char, roots and runners-
years before this, elementary,
I rubbed my family in pastel, our skin soil
brown ovals.
2.
I: in a mirror, black-eyed, the char, a house rotgutted.
These days
everything is like smoke. It is more accurate
to use
chalk, charcoal. I learned to grind my roots into oils.
Teach that in a textbook,
filthy spic, little shitskin. I think there is
a figure
dredging spines and hearts, painting curses on the walls
of that building-
God, there damn well be! And have him draw water
to cool the cinders.
