Cradle Song II

by Àngel García
At birth, I’m fed first
my warm placenta,
liquid twin, skin darker
than my own. Bathed
in breast milk I’m made
porcelain. Haloed in star
light. Sana, sana, colita de rana.
A prayer sung into my pores.
My first words: a pussy hair
stuck between my teeth.
My first love: the testicles,
abuelo-skinned, between
my two legs. At night,
I learned first the song
sung through the air duct
Así papi, así papi, damelo.
The dog beneath my cuna
licking itself. The moon
making inappropriate shadow puppets
through my open window.
I cried, I’ll admit, that
night and every night since.
Lloron. Chion. Lips reaching
for an imaginary nipple. That
night, I was thrown out with
the dirty bath water. The ring
around the tub the last mention
of my name. Sucio. Sinvergüenza.