Requiem for Iron Man Vasquez
1. Skeleton Tree
From the time I was five, I been big—meat
and bone and concrete clumps instead of hands.
My Ma, she did her damndest not to beat
me. Even when, most times, I couldn’t stand
the sight of her, and like the little punk
I always knew I was, I swatted her
thin, pale thighs with my hands—they were tree trunks
then, even at that age. I painted her
legs with welts—apple-sized “I love you” notes
I knew she’d read too many times before
from someone else. She kneeled down, winced, grabbed hold
of me—when I hit her like that—and poured
the tears from her eyes. Bucketfuls of ‘em.
Then she’d smack me, call me my father’s son.
2. A Shadow Eats a City
They’d all smack me, call me my father’s son,
kick me down in the dirt for something I
just couldn’t help—my meanness, my thick tongue,
my ugly mug that looked just like the guy
that every bookie, shark, and strong-armed dog
in Gotham wanted bled dry, hung up from
his God-damned pecker ‘cause he owed. The fog
of debt my old man left behind let some
real bad things happen. There were at least four
times my Ma fought eviction notices
by letting landlords see the scar she wore
up-under her things. She would never kiss
‘em. Never. And when mornings came, we walked
to school together, but we never talked.
3. Chewing the Bones of Teenage Love
In school together, she and I ain’t talked.
I was the big, mean demon her old man
told her would hurt her deep. He said I’d stalk
and rape and kill her. “That’s all his kind can
digest,” I heard him tell her once. “They pick
the pretty flowers just to watch them die.”
I stood on her front porch: a lummox—thick
and dumb and seventeen—and I just cried
because I knew, right then I knew, that all
the lineman muscles churning under my
shirt, all the boxing welts on my ribs, all
the sharp hellfire I toted round in my
bones…they had killed me long ago. Killed us.
With half a chance, I’d grind her into dust.
4. City Lights Have Never Cared for Stars
With half a chance, I’d grind ‘em all to dust.
It didn’t matter, none at all, how big
they were, how many fights they’d won, how much
the crowd had wanted ‘em to win. I’d dig
my mitts up into that thick, soft hunk of
red meat that nobody thinks to protect.
Right there, below the bottom rib. Some of
‘em passed out from the pain. Blood and respect
go hand in hand in life. That’s what I’ve learned.
It was my best friend, Biggers, who named me
“The Iron Man.” At twenty-two it earned
me my first and last title fight. Round three.
Right cross. My nose explodes. Crowd smiles. Ref stares.
And Biggers, laughing, falls out of his chair.
5. Food on the Table
And Biggers, laughing, falls out of his chair.
“Another fight,” he says. “No way. No how.
You finished, Broke-Nose Vasquez. Ain’t nowhere
you can get a gig fighting. That’s just how
things is. Ain’t nobody want a broke nose
gorilla. Nobody…but…I do know
of something else you could with all those
gorilla muscles you got.” He did know
of something Broke-Nose Vasquez would be good
at. The first time I broke some Jimmy’s legs,
it hurt. But then, job after job, I could
feel less and less, until one day, instead
of fighting, I sat numb, out in the truck,
while Biggers shot my Ma square in the gut.
6. The Pulse of Revelation
When Biggers shot my Ma—uncorked her gut—
it was because she couldn’t pay her debt.
I should have felt some dull, thud of guilt, but
I didn’t. Everything was cold. I bet
I didn’t even have a pulse. I sat
there, reading, out in Biggers’ truck, about
this guy who dresses up like some damned bat,
some monster, and tries to make things work out
the way they should. Some guy that probably
just didn’t have a daddy. Some guy numb
and cold and dull inside. Some guy like me.
So I went out and got a cape, a gun,
a mask for my face, and I walked up to
the first bad guy I saw. His gun was blue.
7. Requiem
He’s just some dumb bad guy. His gun is blue.
The city backfires. Concrete lunges up
at my face. My nose breaks again. (Dark blue
blood.) (My Dad ain’t here—never was.) Stand up.
I can’t. There’s a lead cockroach crawling ‘round
inside my ribcage. (My Ma ain’t here.) Birds
land in my blood and watch. Not a damned sound.
I didn’t know this city still had birds.
Keep breathing. I can’t. Lungs go flat. Some life.
Some hero I am—“Broke Nose Vasquez. Dead.
Found on a Gotham sidewalk. Got no wife,
kids, family. Father not known. Mother dead.
Tried once to fix things, but forgot that he—
since he was five—been nothing but dead meat.”
click to hear me read this poem
*This poem appears in the Volume III, Issue 1 of Measure.
Taken from “…hide behind me…”
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