As the Sun Goes Down

Javier Sandoval

A summer beneath stop-light suns, I’d cuss the sky from under the moto’s engine

as Amá brought out sweetened coffee, puffed orejas, her shade falling over

—the only tree in the yard.     Ya para. What you even need a moto for?

Stuck nut, she stalled me from my cousins out drinking     in parking lots, street racing

by white suburbs, blonde ladies.     But all I wanted     was my light to lead me

beyond familiar fences, to get lost.     Oil squirting in my eyes, the night blot

of my future closing in on us, I knew     if I shut them, pulled back hard,

something had to give. But the wires sparked & snapped,     like bad phone

calls with my father. When the starter choked,     it gasped like a child jumping

back into a closet. When I covered my face     with blackened hands, my heart

turned to some hot-running gasket     blown.     To relieve pressure

I yanked the torque wrench, chucked     the bolt into the street, watched it flint

under the headlights above.     There were no male models     as my knuckles

skinned bare beneath the spinning gears,     only the headshakes of my mother

passing me bowls of frijoles, four or five tortillas     torn, as I fought to fix this

all myself.

But in star-lit flashes of faith, the road mount would throttle.     Then mutter silent,

slouched on the concrete     littered with cigarettes,     its chrome pipes stained

like all his promises.     I quit praying to the machine.     Quit praying to anything.

I’m still not sure if I ever figured it out,     or if stomping on the engine had

jostled something into place,     but when I cranked it roaring in the orange

thrum of the streetlight, I swear     even the moon raised its brow,    and nodded.

I rode through the night’s silver-lined roads,     its pitched forests, its shadowed brush.

I took the entire road, I did not see the predator     eyes peering through the dark-

clawed thorns and branches, the grizzled bark.     I had birthed myself, or maybe

nothing had,     but the yellow lines looked more golden     as my front tire curved

over the frowning horizons.

The next morning, when the cop lumbered over     to where my moto’s lock was cut

and black tears trailed to somewhere far,     the sun’s red glare streaked

from one sky gash     to the other.     The cop shrugged like my father

when I asked if there was any chance of catching who’d stolen my iron.   My mother

butted in, They musta waited for him to fix it.     All that work for nothing.

I tried to warn you.     The cop piled on, The real shame’s they’re just gonna

strip it back down for parts.    But cheer up, son, you’re still young enough

to have her drive you around.     Faith was only here so briefly, but it still has me

searching for a glimpse of my old bike     rounding the curve,

of finding that source of power     that’ll carry me toward greater awes & wonders.

Or maybe it’s just the fostered suspicion     of my mother having called & paid a cousin

to clip my journey before kicking off.     I asked the sun, the cop, Ama, & the one

that’s gone,     Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?     No one else to help me?

But I couldn’t even gaze up     from the black stains over grass.     I knew

they all just looked the same.