Brothers

Francisco Aragon

After Jesse Treviño’s Mis Hermanos, 1976, acrylic on canvas

1.
You can’t see it, but my teeth are clenched. Like my half-fist barely brushing his thigh: this brother to my right, sunglasses dangling, folded, from the middle of his shirt—large black pits staring, sideways, as if his chest had eyes. My attire—black denim, black cotton—matches my mood some days. Don’t assume the hand on my left shoulder isn’t intrusive, however light the touch: don’t be fooled by that brother’s shirt, its leaf-like shapes. I was too shy to object: the nickname they had for me? Chiquito. Look at them: how the sun plays on each of their six faces. While I, completely in the shade with this wide nose and cleft chin, look directly at you—from beneath this helmet of hair.

2.
El sol and me don’t mix—por eso these shades, this gazing into space. Get this pinche moment over with already. It’s a balancing act, yo aquí sentado, the top of the fence pressing into mis nalgas, my fingers resting on hermano’s shoulder while the other hand— well, you can barely see it cradling my vaso of piss. Hell, if you squint, I could be holding my dick.

3.
Mamá can’t stand my version of a beard. Says it makes me look like Che. But here’s the thing: facial hair is my thing—path I cut that’s mine and mine alone as the middle hijo. Know what I’m saying? Like I said: facial hair is my thing.

4.
Check out my shoes. Check out my sun-dappled pants, slyly patterned—to match my shoes, white. Check out my baby blue camisa, freshly ironed. Check out the way I lean easily to one side, the fence post my arm rest. I’ll be nursing this one drink, one plastic cup, all afternoon. On a heat-drenched day like this, I wear a white camiseta to absorb the sweat. What do you make of my half-smile, my teeth—naturally straight?

5.
Let me guess. You’ll write that I’m wearing a striped shirt. That I’m brooding behind this bigote. That I like to wear jeans, polish belt buckles incessantly—residue of my tour overseas. That I’m gripping what looks to be an invisible glass: my hand oversized, too perfect, so stiff-looking you’d think it wasn’t real. You’ll read up on me and write that I’m lying in some jungle ditch from sniper fire, nearly bleeding out. “What could I do, what if I had another chance? San Anto, my hood, mis cuadros.” And for what? So you could sit on a canvas stool in some museum—trying to get in my head? Shit. I’m the artist. Who the fuck are you?

Upon his return to the United States in 1998 after a ten-year residence in Spain, Francisco Aragón began a period of activity that has included his own literary output, editing, translating, and literary curating. After completing degrees in creative writing from UC Davis (M.A.) and the University of Notre Dame (M.F.A.) in 2000 and 2003, respectively, he joined the Institute for Latino Studies (ILS) at Notre Dame, where he established the ILS’ literary initiative—Letras Latinas, where he has conceived of and overseen programs for Latino/a poets and writers. He is the author of two collections of poetry: Puerta del Sol (Bilingual Press, 2005) and Glow of Our Sweat (Scapegoat Press, 2010) as well as editor of the award-winning anthology, The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry (University of Arizona Press, 2007). His poems and translations have appeared in various journals and anthologies. A native of San Francisco, CA, and resident of Arlington, VA, he spends the fall semester on the Notre Dame campus, and spring and summer working out of the ILS’ office in Washington, D.C.