Michael J. Pagán, Land of Hares

One rarely sees a hare
in an American city.
They must have fled, or maybe
they went into hiding – like rats.

Her pussy was a paddle brush
across my mouth; she sat on my face.
I thought I’d offer her a seat, meaning:
I was courteous.

Her mother was addicted
to Jazzercize; Puerto Rican hips,
that twisted like a fly strip;
poor though.

Her father worked in pest
control: swapping flypaper out
of bug lights. He called me plaga
or bicho. He was Puerto Rican.

He forgot that bicho was also
slang for cock. Though, his daughter
remembered. She said it tasted
like skin. I responded: that’s all it is.

That’s all it was, and her father
named us Plaga.

I would dig under her
fingernails. She would pick at
my razor bumps, pseudo
follicle – false hair. I’d find
her cuticle, and then sniff
at her panties.

I smelled her mother, as well,
as she cooked frijoles
and white rice.

Her husband would eat
out; a gutful of bugs

She’d have Tootsie Rolls before
we kissed; her nipples
like Duracells; arms
like wooden clothes pins.

Her mother was addicted
to his tastes. He was lovesome,
believing the way to a woman
was against her skull.

No hug coupons.

She asked her father once:
Papi, is it true, what
Mami told me about you,
that she was full, when
you happened to walk
by, and decided to pick her
from the Flamboyan?

He responded: No, she was
more like a monkey without
a tail, who fell, and I was
the only fool with his arms

She told me: I wish
I had a tale.

I responded: I prefer not
to climb trees.

We would hide underneath
the bed and kiss without tongues,
though, still open-mouthed. We
were young then. The only way
we were to fit.

I asked what borough she
was from. She said:
It doesn’t matter. I’ll never
come to ground.