Recuerdo: Bare
Once I walked in on my father undressing
watched as he tugged his underwear and jeans
down his lean light-complexioned thighs
For what either one of us could have mistaken
for eternity we stood motionless questioning
what exactly was keeping us locked in this position
if really we each wanted to see across time
he to study the features he once embodied
me to accept the odd shape I’d one day become
And as I gazed up at his gut I remembered the linemen
at school how they stood beneath the showers
in the morning washing themselves with bars
of soap they shared passed back and forth
and that they tried so desperately to drop
in the middle of the floor My father lifted his jeans
said without saying a word that I should shut the door
and when I did walked down the hall with the image
of a man looking vulnerable I was thrust back into
the locker room avoiding the upperclassman who
as they stood around propped their legs on the bench
were unafraid if their towels slipped uncovered
that part of themselves that if you saw you acted
as best you could like you hadn’t at all which is why
that evening as we sat for dinner I kept my eyes
on my plate and cut the meat my father cooked
with a knife I had no idea how to use
Recuerdo: La migra
Then la migra came
and what was at first a traffic stop
at a Wendy’s parking lot became
a blur of lights patrol men police
And inside the back of a pickup
in that camper that gave the truck
the feeling of animal control
sat an old man cuffed disheveled
in as much shock as his face
rendered him in the window but aware
of what came next when the agents
began their paperwork when the hour
bled into small talk laughter
into long suspicious surveys of the lot
as though a person of interest were near
or as though they knew the status
of the men inside the restaurant
and were waiting for one to come out
for any of those fathers who sat
watching as my father watched
to drop their drinks and fries
and in the way they gave their wet skin
to a new land surrender freely
to the cold custody of night
ESTEBAN RODRÍGUEZ is the author of Dusk & Dust (Hub City Press 2019), Crash Course (Saddle Road Press 2019), (Dis)placement (Skull + Wind Press 2020), and the micro-chapbook Soledad (Ghost City Press 2019). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Gettysburg Review, New England Review, Shenandoah, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. He is the Interviews Editor at the EcoTheo Review and is a regular reviews contributor at PANK and Heavy Feather Review. He lives with his family and teaches in Austin, Texas.
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