Bird Eating Bird Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Kristin Naca
before, I said, Come back and meet Faith, the owner. She’s new in town and needs to make more friends.
Today, they ask if I follow faith and I decline, an atheist. And they ring their knuckles—screw fingers around their moldy joints like a nut-cracker’s teeth.
My cousin Jing Jing—Sonny’s sister—a Witness, too , I say as they clang the pages of their good books, fingering for a tooth of conversation.
Constance and Reyanne don’t rush into talking. Mornings, they buzz by the doors like flies.
And I’m patient with them—out of respect for the cousins—while teeming in the hot, Pittsburgh dust I carry in a suitcase from home to home.
Jing Jing is my favorite name , is what I long to tell them. What’s your favorite name? I long to ask.
Once, in Seattle, I was bald and breezes slid easily from my gut. I’d say, Make like the Jehovah’s Witnesses and count me out.
Once, Sonny and Jing came out to the S.F. Airport to see Puring and me as we stretched our good leg out to the Philippines.
They kept a glowy silence about my head as we teetered past the clanging Krishnas.
Love balled through my bare skin. A brilliant passport.
In the P.I., Puring and I visited Uncle Ulpiano—their father—a stroke had left a golden sore in his eye.
Faith is a photo of Ulpe, a Ranger in WWII, closed in the dusty pages of a book, his corners shrunken and torn, footless from all the marching.
A friend of my grandfather’s taught Ulpe to read. For the god’s-sake of this story, we’ll call her Faith.
Constance and Reyanne smile when I say: “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love” then they frown, “Our souls just mush under bootsoles, long to be eaten by grassy teeth.”
Ulpe doesn’t recognize my brilliant head. Thinks I’m the younger brother. My name nonsense.
With the Pacific conquered, Truman took the ones who read and sent the rest packing.
When Constance and Reyanne hit the books again, I want to say, faith and belief, a foggy bathroom mirror, a raincoat on the man who drags a suitcase full of dictionaries door to door.
Today’s forecast, humidity: I heat myself, I heat my hand, I heat the air inside my hand like a handful of warm, glass marbles.
I can’t believe they call me Sister anyway. When they’re just Constance and Reyanne to me, the same as Jing and Sonny.
Their pamphlet charges to my sweat and releases a green sore of ink in my palm.
THE ADORATION AT EL MONTAN MOTOR LODGE
— San Antonio, TX. Reviews not yet available.
A leathery tobacco stain where her knuckle creases.
Limón in the taco grease licked off of lovers’ fingers.
Tonight the sheets will yellow beneath the dim light bulbs.
A yellow kiss. love plagues the Earth.
How water from the marred glass roughens her top lip.
Exhaust the nylon rug kicks up. The pink sink. The mirror above the sink that forces a ripple through her gut. The smile that’s a water-stain on the smoky curtains. A pillow that—for the most part—lovers use for balancing. The cataract bluing the tube inside the ancient TV set. The showers that run all day and swell the hallway with their sweat. The dewy pillow against her face. A plague of love upon her.
For hours the lovers’ feet kick at the woozy nightstand.
Santa Biblia in gold leaf on the good book on the nightstand.
Brown nipples that start to fade as she ages, that metallic pussy smell, how the grain of her cunt toughens around her fingers when she comes, the veneer of as a mouth.
Blood that starts to slough off once her breath has dried it to her lips.
Combing fingers through the red carpet fronds, searching for her glasses.
Side-by-side the blisters raise in the shape of teeth.
WHILE WATCHING DALLAS, MY FILIPINA AUNTIE GROOMS ME FOR WORK AT THE MASSAGE PARLOR
Friday nights, the images
of hot tubs, Manhattans,
and blondes fingering the
Today, they ask if I follow faith and I decline, an atheist. And they ring their knuckles—screw fingers around their moldy joints like a nut-cracker’s teeth.
My cousin Jing Jing—Sonny’s sister—a Witness, too , I say as they clang the pages of their good books, fingering for a tooth of conversation.
Constance and Reyanne don’t rush into talking. Mornings, they buzz by the doors like flies.
And I’m patient with them—out of respect for the cousins—while teeming in the hot, Pittsburgh dust I carry in a suitcase from home to home.
Jing Jing is my favorite name , is what I long to tell them. What’s your favorite name? I long to ask.
Once, in Seattle, I was bald and breezes slid easily from my gut. I’d say, Make like the Jehovah’s Witnesses and count me out.
Once, Sonny and Jing came out to the S.F. Airport to see Puring and me as we stretched our good leg out to the Philippines.
They kept a glowy silence about my head as we teetered past the clanging Krishnas.
Love balled through my bare skin. A brilliant passport.
In the P.I., Puring and I visited Uncle Ulpiano—their father—a stroke had left a golden sore in his eye.
Faith is a photo of Ulpe, a Ranger in WWII, closed in the dusty pages of a book, his corners shrunken and torn, footless from all the marching.
A friend of my grandfather’s taught Ulpe to read. For the god’s-sake of this story, we’ll call her Faith.
Constance and Reyanne smile when I say: “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love” then they frown, “Our souls just mush under bootsoles, long to be eaten by grassy teeth.”
Ulpe doesn’t recognize my brilliant head. Thinks I’m the younger brother. My name nonsense.
With the Pacific conquered, Truman took the ones who read and sent the rest packing.
When Constance and Reyanne hit the books again, I want to say, faith and belief, a foggy bathroom mirror, a raincoat on the man who drags a suitcase full of dictionaries door to door.
Today’s forecast, humidity: I heat myself, I heat my hand, I heat the air inside my hand like a handful of warm, glass marbles.
I can’t believe they call me Sister anyway. When they’re just Constance and Reyanne to me, the same as Jing and Sonny.
Their pamphlet charges to my sweat and releases a green sore of ink in my palm.
THE ADORATION AT EL MONTAN MOTOR LODGE
— San Antonio, TX. Reviews not yet available.
A leathery tobacco stain where her knuckle creases.
Limón in the taco grease licked off of lovers’ fingers.
Tonight the sheets will yellow beneath the dim light bulbs.
A yellow kiss. love plagues the Earth.
How water from the marred glass roughens her top lip.
Exhaust the nylon rug kicks up. The pink sink. The mirror above the sink that forces a ripple through her gut. The smile that’s a water-stain on the smoky curtains. A pillow that—for the most part—lovers use for balancing. The cataract bluing the tube inside the ancient TV set. The showers that run all day and swell the hallway with their sweat. The dewy pillow against her face. A plague of love upon her.
For hours the lovers’ feet kick at the woozy nightstand.
Santa Biblia in gold leaf on the good book on the nightstand.
Brown nipples that start to fade as she ages, that metallic pussy smell, how the grain of her cunt toughens around her fingers when she comes, the veneer of as a mouth.
Blood that starts to slough off once her breath has dried it to her lips.
Combing fingers through the red carpet fronds, searching for her glasses.
Side-by-side the blisters raise in the shape of teeth.
WHILE WATCHING DALLAS, MY FILIPINA AUNTIE GROOMS ME FOR WORK AT THE MASSAGE PARLOR
Friday nights, the images
of hot tubs, Manhattans,
and blondes fingering the
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