Creative

El Puto, El Santo, y El .22

Muses
Those bitches
They're always asleep
In their sugar-coated slumber
As I try to write poems
For that big American boy.
That Catholic boy
Who serves my cup on Sundays
And looks like an angel.
From a stained glass window.
He smiles a good smile
That is sincere.
And not like the one from Eric
That gringo boy I fell in love with
Who ripped me apart.

If my Papa knew he
Ripped me apart
He'd shoot that Nasty boy
With his old revolutionary rifle
a hard .22
Right in the huevos
With a, Que chingados estabas pensando?
As he aimed the rifle at ME.
What the fuck were you thinking?
I wasn't thinking
But I'm thinking now.

If I ever see Cupid
I'll tell his flappyhappybastardness
Where to stick those arrows.

And if that good church boy
Found out when he handed me
That bloody cup, he really was
Washing my sins away
What would he say?
Would he serve himself
A Big piece of apple pie
Holding a cross in his left hand
And American flag stuck in his head
As he recited, "The
Righteous shall have their way."
Over and over
And shoo me out
To watch the Pope pitch
For the New York Yankees?
What did he think
When I said hello
Outside of Safeway?
My ugly bra in full view.
The buttons too indiscreet
To stay shut.
Did I have a T.H.O.?
My breasts
Those sluts
Now they'll say hello
To anyone.

I should tell them
My Dad's serious with that .22.
Next time I go to God's house
For a meal
I'll make sure my accent's quiet
And I'll staple my shirt shut.
My zipper too.

When I hold Christ
With my shaky hands
I'll make sure to give a crisp
"Amen!"
And ask him later
"Who the hell are you?"
Maybe I'll tell him
About my Papa's .22…

By Maria de Jesus Estrada.
Maria is a third year Ph.D. studying Rhetoric and Composition at Washington State University. She is originally from Yuma, Arizona but was not influenced by Southwest Poets until recently.

Editor's Note: The title of this poem in English is
"The Male Slut, the Saint, and the .22."