The Chicharra by Reyes Ramirez

trilling from 
the secret limbs 
of coronary trees 
for drink, heat 
& desire are 
our mutual oppressors. 
the waxy hands of Houston’s air 
cup our bodies 
as though guarding 
the last ember from 
the last fire. 
oh how it would 
feel to strip my skin 
from the maize-yellow meat 
underneath, spiraling 
vapor escaping. 
a lid sliding off the pot’s 
rim gargling 
honeycomb tripe, 
snakeskin empapado 
with fever sweat. 
i’ve often mistaken 
their mustardy exoskeleton, 
abandoned like a truck 
snuffed by weeds 
along a highway, 
for living things. 
how could i? 
i’d leave my ghost behind, 
too, if the rest of me climbed 
a tree to ululate 
my frothing organs 
into the sky’s tongue. 
if your song were translated, 
would i be able to name 
the color grains embody 
in a heaving field 
as sunlight died, 
rebirthed, glowered, & 
died again? i look up 
at a branch. 
my ears echo 
with the desire 
to scream & not be seen.