ISSUE  1   2   3   4   SUBMIT

Three Poems

Regie Cabico

Love Letter From Andrew Cunanan

Dear Regie,

I am geared to calamity, fragile as baby teeth. Shards every hour
of a failure to cope with the every day. So much wine, I feel
like I’m flying to Europe and I hate airplanes.

I’ve wanted to speak to you ever since I saw you in “How The Sky Fell”
at The Poets Theater. You were so valley. Your performance, so wicked.
I wanted to kill you. You took an interest in me because I told you I wanted
to be an actor. You never cared about my Barney’s charge card
or the plantations of pineapples my family owns. I got your address
from the Asian American Writer’s Workshop.

I fell in love with you at Mandarin Grill. We sang karaoke,
California Dreaming, remember?

On the drive from New Jersey to Miami, bugs shuck their skeletal husks
& I imagine both of us near-sighted swash-bucklers dangling from a chandelier
of hot sex. I have flashed my dimples like an envious boy. Tantrum habits
I perfected like a castaway.

Let me take a cobalt pencil, make darker you eyelids as I exhale my biography
into you left ear. Pull your hair so my fingers breathe through the strands
of each tussle, our legs be braided & twined like the shaft of a single goblet.
Your shaven blue jaws. Be my rubber ball. My resigned mouse. Let my arms
become ropes that I can tie ‘round your ribs, kiss every angle of your body.
I’m a white fox winding through forested trails of bonded muscle & whorls of musk.

I have composed impossible lyrics for our pelvis.

Fetal and palming I fuck you.

I have told more lies than a psychic hotline.
$23 a minute lies. Embellished truths that pay
for my hotel, saline solution & gasoline.

All I know are the details of condom wrappers
& the jolly music of handcuffs.

Versace was sucking bacon when he saw me. He tried to smoke his way
out of a cordial conversation but I followed him like Magellan. He stretched
& his head split, bullets the size of M&Ms tumbled towards him. Dried icing
on a bride’s face. His lids burst. The marble stairs hemorrhaged sliced, open
to a purple sky, the salt, a mile away. I became witness to his headline . I made
that headline. He popped inside his stupid Bermuda shirt.

My auto is slippery with the fluids of men.

I was footwork & firework when I pulled the trigger.

I Saw Your Ex-Lover Behind The Starbucks Counter

At first I thought, this can’t be him.
There’s almost no Argentine
accent. & yes, his lashes were
long. & yes he was courteous
& expedient with the register.
Clipped with his thank yous,
careful to distinguish a grande
from a tall. Remembering to add
a shot and a half of peppermint
to the old lady’s mocha. When my
turn came, I wanted to ask what
his views were of fidelity in a
relationship that spanned over
several continents- from palm trees
to no trees, beaches to piss-stained
concrete buildings with the daily
drunk as your doorman. I wanted
to ask him if he regrets leaving
you, taking every appliance &
burning your anniversary
photographs, leaving behind
his poetry & beaten teddy bear.
I wanted to ask him if he had
a clue. A hint of what was happening.
If he remembered who typed
his FIT English papers. I wanted to tell
him that a Mr. Turtle baby pool
had more depth than he did. Tell him,
how I whisper pancita suave to you
each night, if he knew how I tried
to untie the knots he left. Tell him, how
your poem, the one about the bed,
that mail-order bed you both
bought, as a “country torn apart
by civil unrest” is finally
published. My head spins
like the collision of a used car
& an ice cram truck. I stare past
his lashes & walk away. I’m caffeine-
buzzed & I’ve drunk no coffee.

Take What You Want
                After Angel Gonzales

When you have money, buy me a watch.

When you have nothing , clasp your hand
in mine and give me your back
for my pillow

or better yet place your thoughts in a mug
during these
late night hours.

If you’d like, you can climb
with me to the roof

and gaze at an equinox of birds
but don’t say you didn’t know
where you were.

In the morning you’ll write a poem-
a bouquet of words for someone else.

I’ll read it anyhow,
stem by stem

standing in its glass
of holy water.

If you leave, do so
with the speed and delicacy
of your arranged syllables.

Just leave the pitcher,
on the counter, just where it is.

I’ll need something
to hold my tears.