Omg, don’t be so full of yourself, Ana Castillo. We didn’t come here to see a picture of you–taken today!
I know! But since we’re in a desert bubble I had to show off my mood. Jk. Came on here today to share a poem with you–about two favorite writers, even if they’d not have been two favorite men had I known them personally. This was published in Fifth Wednesday Journal and had the good fortune of a Pushcart Prize nomination. I hope you enjoy it!
Two Men and Me
I left Bukowski again, went back to Bolaño,
both men bad to their women. Me, like the rest,
couldn’t get enough. Both smoked and drank
themselves to death. They liked it rough, said
that was how they got their best writing done.
One winter we all ended up in hell, raninto each other at a café. [REVISION: bar,
wanted to fuck. Roberto punched him in the gut.
We quaffed a few whiskies. They knew. I knew.
I wasn’t that kind of girl. Instead, we set out to do
a three-way poem. Tu primero–said Bolaño.
“What?” Bukowski said. “No comprendo.”
“HOW FUCKED UP YOU GOTTA BE YOU CAN’T
UNDERSTAND SPANISH EVEN IN HELL?” Roberto was mad.
“You illegals!” the other started racializing the situation.
(No wonder he was in hell. Then, again, we all were.)
“I’M NOT MEXICAN, PINCHE GRINGO,”
Roberto yelled throwing another swing.
This time he got me in the eye by mistake.
“There are no mistakes in hell,” the demon bartender said, handing me
some ice. “That’s the beauty of this place.”
The guys stopped.
No one had ever seen ice in hell.
Yeah, it was the start of something big.
P.S.: Greetings & congrats on all her good works to my friend and colleague, Profa. Aida Hurtado.