How Do You Celebrate? How Do You Mourn?

I expected
to adjunct—
part-time teach—
and not care
for the rest
of my life,
but while
we celebrated
a conference
end and an
anniversary,
at Disneyworld,
I was hired
tenure-track
and Papa died. 

One call came
the day we
landed.  

One call came
the night
we left. 

Both ended
with unanswered
questions.
 

Hungry Mornings 

White Grandma and I gather the materials—alcohol, a new needle, and a vial—
to stimulate bone growth at the end of a timid life of shrinking spines
and regular, bruising punctuation. Every morning, she says “I wish you
didn’t have to drive out.” I say, “It gives me excuse to visit”
while White Uncle coughs in the other room.

 Her smile says I’m proud my baby found his heart, before the end.
I jab her, always too fast, always too slow, always lesioning her skin
or prolonging the pain, always the stifled moan. White Uncle lies
in the other room, drinking flat Sprite and sweating
while his skin itches, and saliva soaks into dry mouth cracks. 

He craves the bruising, the prolonged pain because it’s the prologue
of pleasure. After 30 years an addict, he’s learned the before and after
take up more pages than the body, and in the end, most of us just want
to be read and remembered. 

How The Sandlot Ends

First, let’s agree The Sandlot is a monster movie
where the growling, snarling unknown thumps
on the barely-holding other side of the fence. 

The kids in the lot lost their baseballs and sleep
to an unseen beast, morphing shapes between
a dog or adulthood but never losing a toothed-grin. 

As an adult, I live on the other side of the fence,
removed from dreams, would-be accomplishments,
and the hopes that young people breathe. 

I even have my own Hercules, a mastiff-pitbull mix
that lives rent free in the minds of mail carriers and kids
with her mouth so big, she plays fetch with soccer balls, 

and a chest so bulky and jacked, I slouch when I get home,
embarrassed of my dog’s physique. She presides over
a collection of rubber and leather and plastic. 

When she greets me with a new ball in her mouth,
I smile knowing I will never throw it back.
We wait for some brave kid to face the beast. 

I’m smiling right now at the thought of creating
new mythologies and ceremonies in the place I live.
But in the mornings, I hear her groan when she wakes. 

I hear her yelp when she bends for food,
and I know there is a monster on the other side of the fence,
all teeth and snarls. There is always a monster there, lurking.

Author’s Biography

Christian Hanz Lozada authored the poetry collection He’s a Color Until He’s Not (Moon Tide Press 2023) and co-authored the poetry book Leave with More Than You Came With (Arroyo Seco 2019), and his short works have been nominated for a Pushcart prize and have appeared in a bunch of places. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors’ kids at L.A. Harbor College.