Between lips,
a dormant line,
the San Andreas fault.
Nana’s left
hand scar
gives up the chisme.
Those fists
belonged to Eas’ Los,
this side
of the Sixth
Street Bridge
over the L.A. river.
Other girls
knew she wasn’t
playin’.
Pachuco speak:
A switchblade
tucked inside
her pompadour. A dance
at the Y,
hair grease,
distracting shine.
The stiletto in case
her man had beef.
Her dad with Jim Beam
covijas and Broadway
gutters for pillows.
One cantina
too many.
Her mom y Sewing
factory and Singers
sewing machines.
This is who we are.
Before sweet
bread conchas.
Over there, on
the corner
of Whittier
and Bradshawe,
step over bolts
of lightning,
as to avoid bad luck.
The webs spiders drew
into sidewalk, give cuentos.
This scar?
Once tattoo.
Once initials
of an old flame.