To Junior, After a Middle School Fistfight.

Vuong, Ocean

    I won't call it dancing
     as I came undone
      by the train track's
   troubled thrum. Your fist
     on my throat
      as I broke
   through summer's hold
    on skin. I won't call it
     dancing, even
   as the white boys cheered
     from the edge
       of their shadows.
   Take down the spic, Jackie Chan.
 & when
           my knuckles found
   the bone that shaped
   your Inca jaw
   & the sky unhinged,
   your tooth falling
    into it--how
     they howled, eyes widened
   at what they knew
     but could not
      believe we had
   become. I won't call it
    hunger--even
     if it nourishes. Beasts
   of burden beating the body
    until it bloomed
     the darker truths,
   until we swung
    leaning on each other's
      shoulders, muscles
   so slick I could see
    my own face reflected
     in your twisted cheek.
   With each blow,
    salt sparks shook
     off our backs
   like April rain.
     My busted lip dripping
      on the track's black shine.
   Fuck up the spic, Jackie Chan.
       & you did. I stood over
        my only friend, the passing freight's
   coyote wail louder
    than your left eye--a burst plum.
      It's hard to believe in god
   when I know
    what my own hands
     have done. Because, Junior,
   we both knew the winner
    would be lifted
     on their shoulders,
   his immigrant name
    reddening their mouths.
      Because like you, I too,
   wanted to crawl
    to the other side, to sleep
     in a bigger house--
   to erect myself
    among all
     that whiteness
   & vanish