Home > Poetry > Abroad
Published: Thu Jul 1 2004
Eva Lundsager, Were now like (detail), 2021, oil on canvas

Jacked someone’s dad
in the Gongora Theater.

Drag queens did rancheras,
mocked Mexican whores.

A big-titted Cuban bartender
pounded mint into a tumbler,

flexed her biceps, laughed
that this was Chinese drudgery.

“Are you a romantic? No? Yes,
it’s too expensive, I think so.”

Sang at my fan, thumping
blades bouncing

breath back down my throat, vibrato
Liza, Judy.

Nothing bad has happened to me
personally for being gay, a rusty

unicycle wobbling
down the wet

bright beach, Sinfonia
seeming to soar down through white clouds painted pink by the
_    _ sunrise, voices

of the violin and the viola so close, best friends touching
in some bowling alley bathroom, laughing

their heads off, running
from security, slimy

serpents sliding back and forth inside two
fists, each inner governor corrupt, too

into it, performing an act, fondling
his microphone, singing flamenco.

Christopher Davis is the author of three books of poetry, most recently A History of the Only War (Four Way Books, 2005). (updated 2006)

Back to top