by Gabriel Rubi
Some nights, abuelo does not cross, instead
with a beer in hand, he concaves his image
against the pixel screen imposed on his hero
whose motions orchestrated from a mound
control my abuelo’s eyebrows and grins
like a marionette’s wire. From within the static box,
set to the target accuracy of the hero’s wrists,
the dancing strings lift or defeat his state.
Abuelo contorts his soul and wrinkles his brow
to strain. The pitches we toss are many. A sting
as cactus draw their thorns with a desert pane.
The suns rains shadows through the torn screen doors.
Abuelo’s beard blooms around his smile like cacti
fruited from his predawn cold can of Coors.
Gabriel Rubi is a SoCal native. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. He lived and died in video games, but now he is a father and husband afraid to die. He is a poet, translator and non-fiction writer. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Poetry International, Gulf Stream Magazine, and elsewhere. Gabriel Rubi is a 2017 Intro Journals Project Winner.