Westland by Rafael Miguel Montes

 

Westland

A bangle bangle tympani
from the food court chongas
swells
with every chopstick twist round
their Szechuan noodles.

It’s quinces summer.
Long months of forbidden platanitos
           maduros
           fritos
and the wait for zapaticos
blancos.

Perhaps this week’ll be spin classes or
salsa
pero now the shopping, the
stand before an earring
kiosk by the Sears, weighing the importance
of piercings.

All tongue clack and squeal
in the fog pop of Glow. If raising eyebrows
made a sound, they’d make it go
schwa.

Grabbing studs, they’re loud enough
to pause the Silver Sneaker mallwalkers,
          septuagenarians all,
avoiding that estrogenerous cloud,
that radiation of youth and yeah and
txt.
That relentless wave of girl.

 

Rafael Miguel Montes

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