Who Else is Like God, Miguel?

Oh, Miguel, with your cat-milk eyes.

Tell me again how the road winds

to your reserved place in heaven and

how your abuela gave you a new name.

How the belly of the sugary sky

gave you feathered-serpent legs

and chafed hands that paint

spinytail landscapes and rows of allspice.

Can I rub your chestnut cheekbones,

and trace the pillowy partings of your hair,

and dip my tongue in your holy watering

mouth that forms U’s at the end of my name?

Then tell me again how you used sorcery

in silos of magical corn that smokes

like you do on the poet’s stage.

Will you clayskull Spires in my dreams?

If so, I will drink your chocolatey sweat

and wonder how your body is a guitar string,

how your fists in our Revolutions still burn.

Tell me, Miguel, who else is like God?