Poetry

AFP photo

By

Alejandro Escudé

Trade War

The man-car arrives at the curb.

It’s smoking a cigarette, speaking in code.

For we are all in the present progressive.

Except in the Catholic cathedral, where the walls

Sweat with sacrifice. Think of it

Like a bowl of cereal nobody is willing to share.

Think of the flat world, bare. At night,

From space, one can separate the haves

From the have-nots. One can see China

As China sees itself. The US colors its snakes,

Careful as a child not to tread outside

The lines. I feed smartphones in the pond.

They sparkle up toward my grasping hand.

They suck on my thumb; I swipe

Their bellies over and over for more love,

But there’s no love in extradition.

Do CEO’s get homesick? Do they feel nostalgia?

We travel over the wet highways of the earth.

We trust in the women who gave us birth.

Moons continue to cross our skies,

Rockets, alcohol, flies,

Our wellbeing a rumor of numbers.

Squint your eyes, on the mountain, a trio of climbers

Armed with a GoPro, a machete, and condoms.

The trade war doesn’t have a proper name.

It’s a trade war. Such as cards I collected

As a child. I remember the boy in a shorts suit

With an exploding atom bomb for a head;

I traded him for the big girl munching

Messily on a red jelly sandwich.

Alejandro Escudé

Alejandro Escudé’s first book of poems, My Earthbound Eye, was published in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.