an anorexic mannequin,
featureless
except for a fixed
stage-right stare.
That winter squall—
snow hid everything,
potholes, downed power
lines, the road.
Your cousin Tito and I
sat two feet apart
at a folding table
in the Filipino community
center.
We both loved you.
Tito smoked his last
Camel
while you mimicked Tony
Orlando.
He pulled on the cashmere
overcoat
picked up in San Diego
where he’d never need it.
That peacock gesture was for
you.
I fished keys from your
coat—
Tito and I tried to find
a smoke shop in a new town.
I thought it was nothing.
After the show—
your razor-edged silence.
We loaded the guitars,
amps, speakers
as the engine idled.
We got in.
You backed up—
then rammed the brick
wall.
Tito and I both turned
at the same time
to look at you
as
though we were one—
Whore. Fucking puta!
What I felt was ice
breaking—
an iceberg calving fr
the first visible split.
