One day Louis’ older brother
drops by the Indian Grill,
and we take a break from bussing dishes.
Carlos wears a wavy D.A.,
greets us with a scarred hand.
Louis tells me his brother
wanted to marry, needed a job.
No one would hire him
because of the tattoo
between his left thumb and forefinger.
So Carlos drove north of town,
up into Austin Bluffs, used his pistol
to shoot the cross and rising sun
clean off.
His hand healed OK. He got
a decent job, but his blonde
wife’s father still
hates him.
Colorado Springs, 1957