In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes

in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers,

unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño.

If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm

into a jar of water. The silver letters

on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once, borracho,

at dinner, he said: Jesus wasn’t a snowman.

Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed

into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.

Frijolero. Greaser. In Tucson he branded

cattle. He slept in a stable. The horse blankets

oddly fragrant: wood smoke, lilac. He’s an illegal.

I’m an Illegal-American. Once, in a grove

of saguaro, at dusk, I slept next to him. I woke

with his thumb in my mouth. ¿No qué no

tronabas, pistolita? He learned English

by listening to the radio. The first four words

he memorized: In God We Tr