My Inlaw Was A Spanish Cop Named Angel

Intercession, ruin:
I consider a saint’s orange wound
at la Catedral Vieja de Santa María.

Intonations off the altar-top apse:
a Christ-hand smacks the fleeing.

I am the son of this family.

//

Salamanca, evening:
I drop all gravity in a deep foam bath.
Missing limb sensations hiss and stack.

Outside the window, a drooped line of dry panties
Outside the apartment, the shuttered fascist drinking hall

His grandmother murmurs

//

Laminated ballistic helmet,
nitrile gloves, and a goatskin wallet.

It’s equipment for the migrants.

I will be their scare segment:
North American, flesh-eating.

//

La botella encendida...

//

I am leaving today with dirty bra straps.
My round vowels crow off old sandstone

...con fuerza suficiente para que se rompa al hacer impacto.

I am leaving for gluts of hot sauce, shootings on the night news

Big pagan dick // girls who slip under my hand in humid panic

Samantha Hinds is a writer and performer in New York. Her work can be found in The Baffler, Poetry Project, The New Inquiry, The Reservoir, and Brazenhead Review.