001 — Licencia | Talon Z. Gray

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Licencia... Come on! ...Licencia! (Fist shaking)

He didn’t even say please.
Just knocked the passenger door with his flashlight —
tac tac tac —
leaned in like I was hauling bodies,
not frozen tilapia.

I reached past the air freshener,
through the shrine —
la Virgencita, a prayer card,
and that photo of Mamá
folded like a secret.
I wish she would not see this.

He snatched my license from my hand like I stole it.

“Yo. What’s that ink?”
“You bang? That MS shit?”

I held out both arms.
Left forearm. All angles look like abstract art.
Right forearm. The same — upside down maybe.
He flinched when they met.

“Nah officer. For mi madre... I ride.”
“The tattoo artist has an interesting way of forming pictures.”

He stared. Blinked.
Looks at my license, then stares inward.

Didn’t even hand it back.
Just flicked it down into the ditch.
Said nothing.

He walked back to the patrol and sat inside, headlights on.

I climbed down.
Blue and red still flashing.
Picked it up slowly.
Grease, dirt on the plastic.
Still mine.

La policía makes the siren —
woooooooo!
It’s like a heart attack —
He has the sport police car and woosh —
takes off like it’s the speedway.

Cold air.
Darkness.
Silencia…

Looking at my arms
and under my breath —
quiet, from the chest,
just for her—

Gracias, Mamá.
You gave me wheels.
Tú me diste camino.
And for you... no me paro.