El Pollo Loco, West Los Angeles
And why wouldn’t he—crack
open each wing & suck out
what he found? He was my host
but not by blood: for me bones
were like relations—uncle, ulna,
tito, tibia—a class whittled down
to a core. Bakit ka nasa Los Angeles
was what it looked like he wanted
to ask instead of making small
talk about God & God
particles, the purported source
of all mass. Because of a girl!
Because a girl I hadn’t yet met
would teach me to drain the last marrow
with Palo Cortado. I watched him lick
each knuckle & whorl. Then he slapped
a bus token down on Formica—for me—
to cover the sights (one way at least) & buy
his apartment a few hours walang
intrusion. There were locks
on both sides of his doors—deadbolts, pin
& disc tumblers (kasi if they get in
I’ll be damned if they can get out); a jungle
potted & hanging; & the bear he claimed
to’ve put down himself—knotted
cascades of fur; as hungry for sound
as a black hole for light—a fucking
bear! We gaped at each other
the next morning, when I woke
with the flu & the landline
ringing like tinnitus behind his bedroom
door. Locked:
so was the front. Uncle Buddy had gone
to work—whatever work was—& forgot
to leave a key. The beach was brighter
& colder than I’d thought, the climates
compact, unpredictable as zip codes.
I looked out across the Pacific—far
across that crushed-up recycled light
sprawled untold acres of
bones, bones
that if struck would make mine
sing out too—
Structure
43 lines · 43 stanzas