No matter how hard you try,
this poem, for you may only
pretend to be a poem:
no dash of salt
no waves nor seagulls
no rose thorns stuck in
an old woman’s tongue.
It’s like a picture
snapped while we were talking
on the phone last night:
my dirty finger was poking
out of my left ear
digging through your muck
of cold sweaty words
(your socks were in your mouth,
your toes were sticking out).
My lips crawled back to where
my gums should have been.
My cheeks puffed up from eating
too much shrimp,
and when the crack split
there was only this
momentary
loud
fart
when I laughed
and I hummed out your name.
I was telling you how the funeral went.
My aunt stood on the hallway
fishing mourners
with a plateful of nacho chips.
She was wearing
grandpa’s 24 karat necklace.
My grandma lost her screws
and did an impression
of her favorite pet poodle Fifi.
She ate all her newborn puppies.
My cousin was reciting poetry.
And in the box,
there was an old man sleeping
and he was grinning at me
so I grinned back
and when I did, the old man woke up
and through the glass cover
my eyes stared at me
and his eyes stared back.
(for Lolo)-
