Pico Boulevard, October 1972

 

By Daniel A. Olivas

 

On Pico Boulevard it is hot, too hot, and smoggy

for October as bodies, large and small, stream out

of St. Thomas the Apostle Church.

 

¡Ay Dios mío! That priest, that priest! says Mrs.

Fonseca. He cannot speak Spanish worth a damn!

When are we going to get a Mexicano to say mass?

 

The stray, yellow dog barks near the votive candles

looking for attention and the children laugh as

they run to the empty lot three blocks down and

two over. Shit, Alfredo! Stay away from me, you

pendejo! I’m gonna’kick yo’ ass, you pinche pendejo!

Alfredo throws a stone anyway and laughs hard.

 

Adriana, I understand your pain! My first grandbaby

came before the wedding, too! But it will be fine.

 

The siren shrieks as the gleaming red fire engine

streaks down the bustling street towards black smoke.

 

Come on, Mirabel. I love you, es la verdad! You can’t

question that. But I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?

 

The siren is far now, at its destination, firemen

helping the helpless, another tragedy confronted.

 

Fifteen thousand dollars! Can you believe it!

in one fucking year! Selling this shit will keep

me in dinero better than any pinche college

degree. Hear me, Simón? Better than any pinche

Harvard. What? Shit, man. Don’t give me that!

I’ve got it wired, man. Wired. Hear me? Wired!

 

Feet hurt, too much perfume, rattling noise: honks,

laughter, coughing, cussing, cooing, church bells.

 

Mi amor, what do you mean? You have my heart,

you know that! My heart! Believe me. I am not

lying to you. You are a wonderful husband, mi amor,

the best, es la verdad. I love you, mi amor. I do.

 

On Pico Boulevard it is hot, too hot, and smoggy

for October as bodies, large and small, stream out

of St. Thomas the Apostle Church.

 

[“Pico Boulevard, October 1972” first appeared in Perihelion, and is featured in Crossing the Border: Collected Poems (Pact Press, 2017).]