2 poems by Mateo Lara

Finally, my hands are glowing

For all the transgender warriors’ lives lost in 2017

Chico, hear me out,
25 of my deities have vanished this year.
Their colors stain my skin and I want them back.
I’ll let you slither into my temple,
If you give me the spell for resurrection.

No, chico, you don’t understand,
I am but one feather for their wings,
God’s crying too. He wants them here, growing.
Blooming more viciously than that shitty store-bought flower in your hand,
Fucker, have you seen wild roses?

You don’t get it. LGBT+, birthed from chaos, luminous riot,
Deep burden from our past,
Who led the fight? Not you. Not I.
I will risk myself in monsoon and madness,
To get you fighting for their names,
Their true names,
Don’t you dare go back.

There is a way, chico, hear me out.
Neon-buzzing flesh, cradled in the glow,
Of remembrance and respect,
Kiss me like you mean it, but only with your throat,
At their feet.

Giving to my pain

There is no use telling you what you already know,
Por que? I’m melting in a memory you regret.
Truth possessed California, possessed me in sleep,
Now I close my eyes,
Mix wine with coke and stir feelings mute.
I’m no king or queen, misleading U.S. gold from crowns,
Slither them back into a river and pop the top off and drink,
Sparkling darkness, just below the surface,
Identify every piece left behind.

These are jagged blades, high fructose memory,
Sugary sweet gluttonous, caramel coloring through an American Dream,
Wiping existence for the sake of destiny,
Bubbling beneath the surface of pain,
Beneath what their limbs and wounds,
Hid from our color, hid from our language,
America shredded its respect,
The way we hide ourselves in this dream, red and limp,
Unbothered and fizzing up over our thirst,
It’s not a gift.