The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize by Stephanie Fetta Page A

IM
    Mifune monkey young, a samurai,
    standing in front of sparrow villagers:
    His ass pulls down below his knees,
    he jiggles their teeth as his
    butt snaps
    the white legs.
    His cheeks grab the sky: dogs bark,
    women hide.
    Hired to kill, the ass walks the torso,
    shoulders, head,
    each bone set calmly,
    swing of a man with no belly.
    The ass spits a sword,
    the ground thuds
    with separate arms, heads.
    His ass does all.
    A cop, he wore white linen. Tall
    folds of cloth hung from an ice cream butt.
    He looked at suspects, his ass shrinking their
    balls and sending a panel of sweat through his coat.
    He spoke English, made race cars, dressed in a
    kimono on an English lawn,
    his belly skin tight to keep his butt in back.
    Mifune walking the dirt, butt twitching to fleas
    and stick drum music.
    Women who’ve said,
    â€œToshiro. Toshiro.”
    As they pulled the long strong distance
    between their ass and his.
    I’d strap my legs around your shoulders,
    a cheek in each hand, and whisper,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â cú
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â cú
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â cú
    All night.
O UT OF R EACH
    I decided to go into the
    world on yellow paper.
    Dreaming of laughing conversations,
    knowing the stopped clock lied,
    leaving friends in foul weather,
    I sat feeling my finger bones:
    Remember when you gripped
    the grass to keep from falling
    off a spinning earth?
    I brace my legs against the stall
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â (feet in sandals, patas de india)
    On the other side black pumps answer, “I’m fine,”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â they leave.
    Holding the lather off my shirt
    I ease to the sink
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â breathing my lunch,
    those slimy hands slide round the sink.
    It is your name that washes me.
    green grimy soap / a thick sweet smell
    As I laugh sideways the floor jumps Up,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â ready for the filthy whispers
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I would tell myself.
O N THE B REATH
    Well, there’s some-
    one following me,
    who
    I don’t know.
    Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
    She’s a small dog
    and called it Chickee
    and every evening
    she’d spoon out dog
    food: “Here chick chick chick.”
    Play your cards, write poems
    and men will say “Hi”
    as you walk
    until you think
    you’re dripping.
    I’ve never seen your belly button,
    your cock’s always …
    I close my eyes
    and kill a cop
    with a shotgun.
    There are so many ways
    to spend a day.
    I can make a day
    a heaven
    in any combination.
    Morning:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â newspaper
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â coffee
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â sweet stuff.
    Wandering past my rooms
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the radio takes me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to places
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and leaping grace
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in the kitchen.
    When I am not writing poetry;
    I live in Woolworth’s.
    Wild as any boy in a cage
    he threw his jacket out the