3 POEMS
adrian ernesto cepeda
I ALWAYS REMEMBER DIALING
A payphone—
those ancient, now extinct relics found
on almost every calle street corner; some
had booths but usually they hung
on walls outside of supermarkets,
drugstores and malls; before cells
and smart Apple phones, we would
take our loose change and call our friends,
lovers and familia members. And sometimes
with no quarters—
I would try calling mi Mami; I recall
her number would ring, and she would
answer saying A-lo! While trying
to speak into the receiver,
my voice was blocked—
with no quarters you could dial
someone but they could never
hear you. When I want to talk to her
this is what it feels like—
1987 and I am redialing her phone
number. She picks up and says
mi nombre as I try to speak,
yelling, Mami, it’s me, su hijo,
but she can never hear me. This
is when I wake up with a sore
throat always hoping maybe
I can go back—
but then I realize
there is no payphone.
I sit up breathing panicky,
grasping the nightmare
like a fever, sweating,
I awaken to mi Mami still
muerta. There was no call,
I just keep replaying her voice:
hearing mi Mami, recalling—
I can never again answer
her ringing inside my head
HOW DOES ONE SLEEP UNDER A FREEWAY UNDERPASS?
Hearing so many people
exiting above, feeling each
tire, wheels’ rubber burning
the scent inside your nose,
running over you, never
can you truly doze off and dream,
shivering inside tent
makeshift, eyes restless,
always fantasizing yourself
inside one of those lanes
changing cars, but there
are no breaks for the traffic
in your head, replaying
no map quest to tell you
do not enter, wrong way
street, sputtering—
your hazard eyes fever red
flashing awake, remembering
all the ways you ended
up stranded, hoping
the dead-end turns you
made will magically speed
pedal (but never meddle)
away, still—you always idle,
wake up daydreaming, no use
signaling, even your eyes
burning with exhaust know—
there is no exit.
I SAW YOU IN MIS SUEÑOS LAST NIGHT.
We were in this casa
and I was in this room,
glaring at the closet. And
you and Mami were sitting there
patiently like you used to,
with your purse on your
knees, quietly dressed up
and then we were walking
in an airport. So many people
it was the largest aeropuerto
I have ever seen, but the thing
I was noticing is that nobody
was holding any luggage,
bags or maletas. The travelers
were all going through these
revolving doors outside into
the light, it’s as if, this terminal
was the last stop before heaven.
I recall before you walked
through las puertas giratorias
I saw you looking very hungry
and I asked, Tienes hambre?
quieres comer antes de su
vuelo? I will never forget
before you walked solo into
la luz, just like a poet you
looked at me and replied
in ingles, I want to eat Jazz.
There was no music, after
you left, for a moment,
I was stuck in doors
as if it was not time for
me to leave, so, this
muy amable hombre,
who was coming through
the other side, helped back
into the dusky indoor part
of the airport. I had shorts
on and was wearing a vintage
1980s Members Only
chaqueta unzipped. I recall
just roaming around seeing
everyone feliz joyously
in a Las Vegas mood with
dim casino lights and candles
barely lighting up these rooms
and I kept wandering around
alone, feeling fever cold looking
for more light.
Adrian Ernesto is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing. His poetry has been featured in Harvard Palabritas, Glass Poetry: Poets Resist, Cultural Weekly, Yes, Poetry, Frontier Poetry, The Fem, poeticdiversity, Rigorous, Luna Luna Magazine, The Wild Word, The Revolution Relaunch and Palette Poetry. Adrian lives with his wife in Los Angeles with their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold.
