The husband decapitates the piñata and the wife
snaps everybody’s head with everybody else’s head
inside her phone, every thinkable pair, like the colored
candies from probability math tests. Everything is
visual now, she says, and snaps. The husband and wife
say they like yellow and green and surprises. We eat
fajitas and pass the cards and the green teething device
around the circle. Mama can’t believe the Cinco de Mayo
theme. She sends snaps of her sweet wine on the Texas
porch and is not tacky. Look here, Baby J: nobody
knows what this day is. This day is the hottest one for
years of night. This day a year ago I stopped wearing the ring.
Last night I went to the potheads’ house on Windsor
Street and ate a bacon sandwich while they smoked
and watched closed captioned zombies. We exonerate such
abysmal dialogue in exchange for the hatchets. Blows
to the head will dead the undead truly. This day last year
Mama cried and sent a snap of boots on the Texas porch,
his and hers, and I drove down the mayhaw mountain.
Baby J, the Mexicans got independent in September.
There’s a bass clef tattooed behind my ear. You weren’t
there. A year ago on the mountain we canned your jelly
and listened to Johnny and June and then we were quiet
on your couch. Maybe that whole place would be Confederacy
or France or his and hers. Maybe we can hear better when
there’s nothing sounding. When the mariachis commence
their trumpeting I taste your shoulder sweat. Send me
a snap of the mayhaw berry that marbled your neck.