Your Favorite Mexican Boy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burning through the spirits of your ancestors,
Alma,
I’ve begun having feverish dreams of the skinny valleys of
Guerrero Mexico,
Your home town and how you like your men: maybe that is
Why you flirt with Armando, the little maricon,
Even though today at lunch you echoed my syllables when I
Told you I loved you,
Even though you would like to put it off as a lie,
But I can tell you only the empiricisms of the world can tell you
The tin kettle joys of the coral snake on your roof:
There he is, and you will never see him, but I have culled him out
Of the places your family works together,
Those who are renting:
Your extended family has done so well for themselves in the eight
Years that they have been in this foreign country:
I could do half as well, except that I am a gringo and accustomed to
The penumbras of these rolling overpasses,
And the divine mirages of the slowly floating helicopters,
And these sad lies- Except that I love you, Alma,
And I have my house that you’ve been to four times, and the last time
We made love for hours,
And you came multiple times: and your favorite color is still green,
Alma,
And I pray every night to the virginsita that I have done work good
Enough to become your favorite Mexican boy.