"He knows you're here for the young Filipinas" and Other Poems

By Christian Hanz Lozada

He knows you’re here for the young Filipinas

but while you’re in country, come and see the largest freshwater crocodile in captivity,

Lolong: the water buffalo killer and eater of two people. Come and see its body thrash

in an abandoned pool and marvel at four dangerous feet longer than the previous record.

Come and meet Lolong’s captor, squatting out front. Come and hear his stories

as he cups his elbows while a cigarette defies gravity on his bottom lip. Come and hear

the coldness in his voice when he says, “There’s a larger killer nearby.” Come and read

his expression say, I know, to some things, I bring death. Come and give your money

as smoke charges at you from his nostrils, and the cigarette keeps hanging there

through a grinless thanks. Come and see his mask drop, with your money in hand.

Come and see the disgust. Come and see how his fears have nothing to do with crocodiles

because he knows what it means when his hands come away empty, because he knows life

can be cheap, because he knows you’re probably here to buy low and leave something broken.

Give Me Finnish Garbage Food

The shack looked like my kind of place:

a standalone counter, no seats, no indoors,

questionable plumbing. Chinese

but in obviously not China.

From off to the side, as if waiting all night,

a Finn approached us, pulled down his hood,

revealed his blonde hair and white skin.

Manoy had to translate: “They serve cat,”

he said. “Don’t eat their trash.”

I thanked the blonde, turned to the server/

cook/owner (probably), pointed to a picture

and held up my finger for one. The man,

white, wispy hair bathed in sweat and yellow

fluorescent light, held up six fingers for the price

like Brown Dad would at the Swap Meet haggling

with the Hispanics or at the market bargaining

with the Asians. This man could be my uncle,

a few hours away from sharing a beer and a story

of home and not home. We watch him flip food

up the sides of a solo wok, and Manoy says,

“They don’t learn the language after years and years.

Ordering from here causes frustration,” but he misses

that Uncle and I speak the same language.

It’s uttered in commerce and bodies, alone

but surrounded by enemies, alone

but screaming, alone and silent.

When the food arrives, it looks almost like home

but tastes more fish sauce than oyster

and, like all the food on this trip, it’s less sweet,

more bitter, as if where tastebuds long for home,

they get a mouthful of adaptation and ghosts.

Like a Kid Shopping 

At the market,

triggered by your silence

Silence, for me, comes before the clash

silence comes before the door is flung open

putting a perfect puncture in the drywall,

before graduating to fists.

At the market,

triggered by your silence

searching for your happiness on the shelves

hearing your lessons in my head

as if they mean something:

            “There is Best Foods mayonnaise and rubbish”

            “It don’t count unless the soy sauce says shoyu”

            “Health is overrated if you’re eating turkey spam”

I fill my cart with these lessons that don’t mean a thing

trying to buy happiness

trying to buy safety

my cart is always empty

my stomach is always empty

what I want can’t be purchased

what I want, you can’t offer

I cannot trade money to stop

fear from vibrating through my bones

tingling my fingertips

echoing in my breath.

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Christian Hanz Lozada is the son of an immigrant Filipino and a descendant of the Southern Confederacy. He knows the shape of hope and exclusion. He authored the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not and co-authored Leave with More Than You Came With. His poems have appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, and the United Kingdom. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.

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