I’m at a Jersey Shore family party, age 16.
Half-full Corona bottles gleam with fizzing honey
as July sunshine laves them, my aunt’s backyard full of salsa
and freestyle. Grown folks who’ve beefed since their teen years
chat and try to play nice. I first meet Marco Antonio here:
50-something, distant blood, dark-skinned, gravel-throat speech,
round shades, toquilla straw hat, loose digs that make him shapeless,
infinite. Most address Marco Antonio with a woman’s name,
even calling him ella, she. Down by the dock, in the bay,
a fish slips from a pelican’s beak, swims away.
One cousin dunks another in the pool. Hold … hold …
Marco Antonio
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