He lives most of the time in Mexico,
avoiding taxes, poaching touristas
from the lesbian discotech, paying a doctor
to shove pig glands in his shoulder.

What’s good for the goose is good
for the liver. Stateside for the summer,
it’s all windows dark with tar paper,
a fifth of Kessler’s, a hooter of homegrown.

He only leaves for the liquor store,
telling Tammy her tits were all he had
to dream of in Tijuana.
A tender mouthful. He was never alone

in the musty villa of memory: the mama-sans

of Khe Sanh, the brown thighs,
the boats full of dragonfruit.
He tunnels beneath the chuy trees,

the sick-sweet smell of the dead, firebombed
from heaven into putty,
a mother and daughter twisted together
like copper wire. Tammy, baby,

I’ll tell you what I know.
There’s the hole you crawl into
and the day you can’t get out.