Call him Luis

                    for my cousin

In between sips

     he envisions vague outlines

of crescent moon asses

          melting into butter brown hips

curving and dipping

     into the darkness

                he seeks drinking malt liquor

and lighting a fire

     he keeps his cigarette burning

             while swallowing his dirty

desires and living as lonely

     as every delusion he

                   takes home on the weekends

         to quiet the demons

    that have taken the life

out of living and replaced

             it instead in his head

         with a scene from a time

in his youth when a

                 truth could still be discovered

       by sinking for moments

                to places where

we run out of air.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.


One thought on “Call him Luis”

  1. “we run out of air” – perfect finish because the line breaks almost force you to gasp for air as you read. It makes the poem – with some beautiful images in the first few lines – turn desperate by the time you get to dirty/desires, and yes, by the end, you’re gasping for air.

    One of my favorites.

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