Falling in Love with Fellow Prisoners

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  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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