Nicholas Fuenzalida lives in New York. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cleaver, The Breakwater Review, Bodega, and Poet's Country, among others. He is a producer for Commonplace: Conversations with Poets and Other People, and a member of the Ugly Duckling Presse editorial collective. He can be found online.
Nicholas Fuenzalida
Two Poems
New Dimension
There's hardly time to speak of anything but ourselves
as mist grasps windows, inhaling the day.
The streets below us have hardened,
unrecognizable to me now
when once they seemed like your family's fields
in spring, waiting to be tilled.
In this city, where people travel underground,
the air is filtered through pretzel dough and scarves
in the shops that repeat themselves,
like your father when he forgets how old we are.
We rise through stairwells, your back silhouetted
by the fog, and I think of cold Nebraska,
where the earth froze the day
after Christmas. Your father took my hand,
led me to a corner closet,
so I could see the rifle
he bought for you
the day you were born.
Watching you now, on these streets
wide as the fields outside your door,
I cannot help myself from thinking —
I, too, misunderstood you once.
Nearly Finished
In the bed of our mother's truck,
my brother's leg has opened.
The fat glistens
through blood and rain,
each bump causing
the white tissue
to protrude a little more.
His face pales
so much like our father's,
and I stuff more wads of shirt
into him, brought closer
to his body than before.
Over the wind and rain
on the truck's tinny frame,
I hear the radio —
year-long fire seasons
expected — and my mother
nods along.
By the time we arrive
at the emergency room,
we've nearly forgotten
there are worlds
outside of our own,
and we are told
we'll have to wait.
In the waiting room
everyone looks
tired and broken,
like the swing set
our father built when
he thought it might help
us learn certain limits.
The television in the corner chirps
at a volume
too low to follow
and the nurses flit past,
escorting patients to rooms
behind double doors.
My brother is taken back,
leaving my mother and me
to run through the day
in reverse —
the hour it took to get here,
the blood on the grass,
the lawnmower sputtering to a stop.
And before that, the last time
we saw our father,
him telling my brother
over hard-scrambled eggs
there are some things
a man must learn for himself.
And before that,
him telling the three of us
he had somewhere else to be.
Lost & Found is published by Glass Poetry Press as part of Glass: A Journal of Poetry. This project publishes work that was accepted by journals that ceased publication before the work was released.
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