My uncle would hold my little cousin, All of three years old, by Junior’s cookie Sized feet
Above his shoulders and would move The tike around like a magic-making Human wand.
J.J. would stay straight as an arrow, One could see the ridged cut of his Baby thighs.
My uncle would ask in scream: Eres Macho? My little cousin would as emphatically reply: Soy macho!
This display would happen when my uncle Was sober or drunk from too many Sunday Afternoon wines.
My pops snickered at me: bet you’d be Crying if I had done that to you, Big baby.
He’d taken me to Ascarate Park and put Me on the whirl wheel ride by myself And watched.
Watched as I cried and screamed to be Let off, the jerking of the ride as it rode Up high
Feeling: a rapid-fire attack of dizzying Effects, watching the world’s bottom Fall out.
Flying, falling, crying, soy macho? I Don’t know, is it macho to want your Feet on the ground?