Eloisa Amezcua

All the white,  
bearded dudes bob
 
their heads in unison.  
Junkies nod off  

and the four men  
on stage with umlauted  

last names look like  
replicas of each other:  

long blonde hair,  
mustaches, tight  

jeans, and sweaty shirts.
I think of your face,  

your chin resting on top  
of my black-brown cropped  

cut. I can't remember  
if your hair falls over  

your left or right eye.  
You could be Swedish too.  

I remember the first time  
you heard me speak  

Spanish on the phone  
with my mother. You  

smiled at the change
in my tone. You didn't  

know I was serious  
when I told you  

I grew up listening  
to cumbias and Café  

Tacuba. Tonight, we stand  
close to the speakers—

your favorite spot  
off to the side.  

The lead singer's vowels  
vibrate in my ears.  

I watch the moshing
in the center of the room.  
 
A man let's another  
punch him in the face.  

I guess everybody's  
just trying to feel something  

or someone. The woman  
to our left watches  

the show through her iPhone.  
You go to the bar and I go  

to the bathroom and I don't  
hear you yell my four-syllable  

name the like ten times  
you say you did. But  

I believe you like I believe  
the buzzing in my ears  

may never go away. So
we leave, tired but whole.