Pale
Sunshine Dempsey

This club is    fuckin
haunted, some maricon says
he knows
ghosts:
his abuela has a restless
fuckin        spirit--
she makes    stacks
and stacks
of tortillas every night, leaves
them on the kitchen
counters like little towers,

and all I know is this:
none of the chicas
who come down here
Fridays
like the gringa dykes--
not the butch ones    like me
with the cleanshaved heads
and the cowboy shirts--

they want the toro de Mejico,
quiet like a pitbull,
oiled slick
as white iron fencing--

Dios mio, he says, they are everywhere,
and he passes his hand through the air,
as if to sweep them
from his face.