Diner Trick
His voice slides low beneath the
clattering.
His shoulders rise, too, with a
sigh.
We hold our breaths but can’t be still.
We wait for his announcement.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, but … —”
Out come the Camels.
He tamps on the pack.
Out comes the lighter.
It glows the tip orange.
And then, ’round the corner,
here comes our waitress.
All laden with burgers.
Our father has summoned her
up like a genie.
She lays down our plates and he
stubs out his cigarette.
We cheer.
I believed he had magic.
I believe it sometimes still.
Live Band
I loved that girl when she
played and twanged in
banged-up blue jeans
twirled her lips and
smoked a pack of nothing
but especially when she
sang my dream.
Traveling
I missed your telepathy because I’d missed the tail end of a TV tragedy. I called you this morning. You’d watched the same story but picked up right where I’d left off. You described a character played by Jeremy Irons. You told me the twist that I’d missed. You completed my thought train and I missed you.
I’m waiting at the airport for a plane that will carry me home. You’ll be waiting at the Kiss & Fly or the Park & Bye or whatever cutesy name they call it.
Earlier I talked about funerals with strangers. I joked about us joking, in our interdependence, about our own deaths. I said that we’d argued, fought about who would go first. “Not you. Don’t leave me.” They laughed at my anecdote.
But I’d had to cut it short because my chest hurt. I made it a joke
when I
knocked
on
wood
made the sign of the cross and touched my hand to my lips. The
only serious prayer I ever do.
Whenever we’re apart I miss you. When we’re gone for too long, I lose touch of your thought train, get
scared of a time
if
when
God
the only thing left would be missing you.
Drive Through
cherries in the mouth
cooked against a sizzled
crust and reddening ’gainst
my teeth, in greasy lust
they tell me that this sort
of thing is bad
but i don’t mind as long
as it gets hidden in my car
along with everything the
way i play the same songs
never stopping and it’s
an old song you wouldn’t
approve.
i’m driving very far
so fast along the
highway that nobody
else can see my face
right through the glass
so clearly so invisibly
the glass a safeguard in
its own clear-see-right-
through ability. the glass
in candor and its truth
hides everything about
me. maybe you see
my smile as i drive by
but you can’t think of
why before i’m gone
i’m gone goodbye i’m
hidden and i don’t
have to hide.
goodbye i smile.
A Link
With her, I lay on the bed Sunday mornings watching TV
Marilyn Monroe in black and white
kung fu movies packed with shirtless men
stretched, supine, safe on a king-sized surface of
sturdy polyester, nylon-stitched and muted floral print.
With me, you sit up in bed on a Sunday night
we watch dance competitions and
wannabe celebrities with dignity for sale.
I hope you feel the same as me with her.
Safe on embroidered microfiber and loved.
You Are Missed, Mr. Rogers
One day I turned on the TV because I was
scared to start thinking alone.
I turned it on to hear the noise but saw you
there instead. You said “How long is a minute?”
And I thought of a lot of
funny, mean answers. And then you said
“Let’s see.” You put an hourglass on the
table. The tiny kind filled with bright white
sand. And I scoffed.
The hourglass showed us just how long a minute
was. And a minute was just long enough to
make my heart slow down.
The only thing in the background was the
railroad whistles and jazz. I thought of
nothing. I only listened until the
minute was done. You said that you’d
be back when the day was new, and I was glad.
Until the other day. Or I guess it’s been five or
six years since you died. And I’m
thinking about you and crying again but it’s
not because I’m sad. These tears are part of that
good thing you told me. You gave me your
minute; it’s still here whenever I need it. And I
remember what you said. It’s such a good
feeling to know that we’re alive.
Vietnamese Noodle House
Saturday mornings
the concrete glows humid
or else sleek gray, in the rain.
We enter fluorescence and
everyone stares but I’m
used to it. Over in the corner
in the coin-filled shrine
the Buddha got apples today.
Our regular waitress
has a beautiful face
long hair tucked under a baseball
cap. If I try to say the words:
Pho! Tai! Lon!
She laughs. She smiles. She’s
proud of her pupil.
When my boyfriend says
“Three, please,” she frowns.
“Americanized bastard,” maybe she whispers.
The standards are higher for him here, we know,
but he’s Chinese, not Vietnamese.
Chinese, not Vietnamese.
Oh, well.
Number Eleven is a soup with raw beef.
the soup cooks the meat for
you. Stir it and watch.
The food on my plate now is vinegar, sweet.
Vinegar, then sweet
with soda and limes.
Outside, the dry cleaner’s bird
gets some sun.
He’s shiny and black with his face
orange and gold.
“I love you!” we tell him.
“I love you!” he says. Then he
screams really loud, something
in his own language.
Then whispers sweet something
in Vietnamese.
I love him, I love you, I love
pho tai lon.
The concrete glows humid
or glistens in rain.
Also by Gwendolyn Zepeda
Better with You Here
Houston, We Have a Problem
Lone Star Legend
To the Last Man I Slept with and All the
Jerks Just Like Him
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Falling in Love with Fellow Prisoners Page 4
