Bird Eating Bird (6 page)

City of misses.

City of echoes.

City of transformer explosions in the distance.

City of long plastic pipe over workmen shoulder blades,

that criss-cross the sky like a skeleton.

City of want to edifice itself. City of look upwards.

City of rivulet. City of rubble. City of particle, granule, and grain.

City of Oriental flower motifs transposed onto huipiles,

that waitresses wear at the Sanborn’s café.

City slowly paving the sky with crumb and tinge and trace.

City of permeate. City of discern.

City of ascending concrete columns.

And of the dangling tailpipe. City you wade through curls of exhaust.

Of pilgrims hauled on the flatbed of trucks, weighed down

by guilt and shame and forgive and humble and mercy and apology.

City of concrete-colored air and concrete-colored breath,

where cheap tires leave tar varnish on the street,

of concrete hearts—yours so solidly not in-love with me.

City of faces on a metro.

City of smog. City of frown and accelerated aging.

City of train tires whistling over train tracks.

City where your silence is roomy as a train car.

City of muffle, of transfer, of big readers, of stare.

City where I’m too tall to be Mexican, I’m too red to be Indian.

Where my traits escape powers of discernment.

City of wrestle past bodies pressed close as you exit.

City of excuse me, of permit me, of pardon.

City of the averted gaze, where with a direct gaze you say,
I want you.

City of no water, no light, no gas.

City of furnaces and lost eyelashes.

City so high up even passion lacks heat.

Where breath lacks earthen, human smell, the smell of shedding.

City of perpetually watched pots and instant coffee.

City where I should have asked for love like rent, up front.

City where water crowns from stolen faucet heads.

Of unmelted sugar at the bottom of glasses.

Where lukewarm juice drowns complaints at the
lunchería.

Where bartenders inquire on the roots of your tongue.

Repeat after me, ‘Pulque, pulga, pulmón,’
he says.

City of spirits fermented with spit, where you
Just swallow. Don’t taste it.

City of gas bells, church bells, trash bells,
sandía
, and
camote
.

City of the silicon earplugs.

Of club girls and DJs leaving for Germany.

Of Yaneth’s mad crushes on Germans.

Of blow and overflowing sinks.

City of laptops adrift on flooded tile floors.

City of wee, and toilets you flush with a bucket of water. City of stool.

City of ashy doorbells and pushpins,

of anonymous dress form mannequins,

of dropping keys to a lover from a fourth-floor window,

of key teeth and finicky key holes.

City of the immaculate alignment.

City where I called your name like something from Calvino,

Karina! Karina!
I shouted at your window.

City of txt msgs,
Sore but I miss you
.

Pendejada pero fabulosa, amorcita guërita chingona…

City of basilicas and pilgrims and skinned knees.

Where a morenita watched you crawl to the Virgen.

City of candles beginning to spit at the over-crowded alter of San Diego.

Every prayer he’s answered.

City of
centavos
and
sueltos
on street corners,

of
horoscopos
printed on wooden-match boxes.

City where I pinch off the flame after licking my fingers.

City where underground cities upturn cobblestones,

that unearthed are displayed in the Zócalo.

City where they piled earthquake victims in the stadium.

City of remember, of rumble, of growl.

City where I fell in a hole and I wanted to die.

City where I sat on the curb and cried.

City where my foot sagged like a snapped tree limb.

City where I was stuck full of pushpins.

City where I howled into a pillow when I got back to bed.

City where I held it in and sweat.

City where you sat at the foot my bed to bear witness.

As you watched speechlessly and did not judge.

Where you returned to the accident scene and found a girl’s shoe.

Where there’s a hole as long as I kept longing for you.

City where all Sandra’s warnings pretty much came true: city of hazard,

In Mexico City, you learn to walk with an eye-patch or cane.

City where I limped (meaning yesterday).

City where I limped (meaning my entire life).

City where I tensed before taking a step.

City where change is better kept in your pocket.

And where every outstretched palm is a prayer.

Oh, palm tree with the disheveled, turned out folds of bark.

Sometimes love looks worse than it is,

the ring of grit at the hem of a pant leg,

the black on the bottom of a kettle.

For a week, he stacked dusty sacks

of birdseed in a kitchen corner,

and we acted like the towering stack

wouldn’t topple us during dinner.

His booby-trap, white cotton twine,

a stick, and a pen he put together

from two by fours and chicken wire

peeled off a thorny ream at Hechinger’s.

Out of nowhere, the gold-plated cage—

the same gold cage where, for years,

lived our pet cockatoo, who spent all day

spitting seed husks on the furniture.

Then, one night, Dad cut up bread

with scissors. I woke up with the smells

of coffee, menthol cigarettes, and sweat

burning the skin inside my nostrils.

I dashed to a window to watch him

and my brother. In a shallow slant

in the yard, they hid out, ready to rip

the cord and walk away red bird in hand.

They chased bluejays with rocks. Swarms

descended. I heard the screen door snap.

I still picture streaks of blood down his arms

from wrestling blackbirds from his trap.

It took days for Dad to capture his prize.

Once he did, I remember, I looked

at this wild thing and wondered why

it was so important. How it shrieked, bled,

and shoved its beak through the rods,

into the unbound air.