Confessional Poem #1

Spent a majority of childhood on 41st street:
In a big white and red house, surrounded by
giant palm trees and Avalon Gangsta Crips-
-both of whom played with clouds.
There were dobermans with brown eyes and
a Pink Panther ice-cream truck. Across the street
lived Marisol Torres; with her blond hair and blue
eyes, she was the whitest Mexican I ever knew.
One night, a cousin was shot dead at the corner
store. He had a long Spanish name, which I never
learned how to spell. He belonged to a local gang
and was killed by the local rival gang.
There was blood everywhere. I walked past it on my
way to school. That’s the day I learned that blood had
two colors: the bright, radish-red when it leaves your body;
and the rusty brownish-red after it dries on concrete.