Chola Love Song

My baby’s father tattoos a title across
our screeching child. I watch
the letters curve, tender and cool,
as they slope clean crests of green,
a crown that will kill him someday.

I mull over the man who sired my son.
Bald as a boy, barely sixteen, he sucked
me through my skin beyond his teeth and
into a world of lewd gangsta laws
promising me freedom from my virgin self.

I listened to his lull. Luring my heart
he cooed in my ear as he discharged
himself into me. Today he pours
a nickname into the neck of our nighttime fling
now two-years-old, soon to be three.

I enfold my baby, cradling him underneath
the skin of my thigh, pinning him to the couch.
His Daddy pens his future below
the bawling skull. My Lil’ Angel has received
his inheritance, a ready-made life from a father

to his son. Big Angel sings the same soothing tune
he crooned to me the evening of our lust. I lost
my head to his homies and was grossed
with pleasures not my own. I can hear still
the yowling now between my knees.

Lisa Marie Sandoval

 

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