He might make a proper subject;
Hispanic is hot right now.
His Indian blood fits,
With its indigenous eyes.
And the loose neck with
Fifteen invisible tears
Tattooed on�
I like it. I can see it,
Native brown.
And the scar that sails
Wanton
As a wide wild river--
And the nose that grows
As I approach--
And the skin:
Almost too precious to paint.
Layered, like laminated glass
That hides the occasional crack
Til it spreads,
Insidious to the sill.

I could put him in the pueblo,
Picking potatoes, or
In an earthen room with mud-colored
Carpet and cactus in the corners
That cuts;
Or on a pier,
Or pyre.

I could make his teeth look real.

And turn the lips into truth
That spits rhetoric
Backward�
I could put my fingerprints
On his cheek,
And move the tattoos to his face.

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