The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Moon as Salted Lemon by Clayre Benzadón

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Qué Guay

I.

In the backyard of Madrid summer,
unpatterned patchwork embeds turf.

My cousins and I are chasing bees
outside their house, whacking

the creatures with tennis rackets.
The fissured organs look sprightly to me.

I think that to gain dominion over
something that can sting me

is righteous. Fuzz and thorax
punctures from its abdomen.

White foam spurts out.
Froth from the pool laps at our feet.

We are above the tile, on top of
a boulder, about to cannonball in.

II.

Enanito! The older brother calls
to his younger one. I laugh. I like

him a little too much. The little one
starts to sing Selena’s “Como la Flor”

in a pleasant pre-pubescent pitch.
Ma-ri-co-co-co, his brother serenades

III.

back to him. Nature feels nimble,
   como manos de madrugada,

organized fissures to suffice
the gore of matching machismo,

of the older one’s word: maricón.
Como maduro, o masticar.

Faggot—It’s a throttled swallow,
marcado adentro del órgano vital, corazón

como una maleta llena de masculinidad,
una máscara sin sentimiento.

The forced pouring, the push into
the water. The boys play-tackle in the pool.

Se enfrentan mientras se bañan en la espuma.
It’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.

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