It begins with tubes of neon,
such corkscrewing icicles that pulsate
in moonlight. Waterbugs lapping
lager drips, crickets that stridulate in brick
     slip dents of the Mayfair hotel.

The way traffic signals fall
        in droplets of green,
              the gold roil—from knuckle to wrist—
of manteca & crema,
   the cotija and corn bits tooth-trapped
      in your smile
cardboard box tents, dew-slick grocery carts,
the rooftop hail of oh-my-gawds
that mollywop our skulls as we saunter
           past pews of palm trees.

And from the edges of our faces
—pupils in congruence—
as though the neon dimmed styrofoam
when emptied of its nectar
can explain the fedoras and saxophones,
or scaffolds and diamond mesh fences
germinating like dandelions.
as though sluicing bodies at the farmer’s market
are the rumpled and russet fists that
stitch marigold or hibiscus on a huipil.

It begins with a woman’s ear swigging the sleep
                  gummed in concrete.

And from the middlemost of this density

Contributor Notes

Adrian T. Quintanar is from Pomona, California and is the managing editor of Chapter House Journal. He received an MFA in Poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts, and his BA from Hampshire College. His work has appeared in RED INK Journal, Santa Ana River Review, Hinchas de Poesia and is forthcoming in Peripheries: a journal of word and image.