Ricardo Moran
__________
What I’m Thinking on October 25, 1986
Someone said they saw Sigmund the Sea Monster waddling
on Imperial Avenue just over the railroad tracks
near the Winchell’s Donut House.
Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” bumping on the Mighty 690,
but it was just prima chasing the paletero
dressed like a mermaid for Halloween.
And my tio, who has glasses
and a moustache like Mr. Potato Head says
he can’t afford the rent, again. so, he’s going to build a house of Legos.
maybe the Doozers can pitch in. Reagan just gave amnesty.
At “Casino Night”, Sister Margarita has her digits on
the roulette wheel, Take me to Vegas, baby! I’ll win enough
to build the school gym. Father is at the crap table, places 10 bucks,
turns around for a blessing from the saints, Come on, seven!
I got my headphones on, bobbing my head, studying Spanish words,
Gun’s N’ Roses playing
and I wonder why I have to learn
Miguel va a la casa de Cesar.
Probably cheating on his hyna.
the aroma of carne asada wafts from the grill.
utensils, pots clang in the kitchen. a knife on the cutting board.
mom’s spoon on the mismatched bowl
from a neighbor, clacking against the surface,
breaking chunks of avocado doused with lemon, salt.
I keep the rosary around my neck,
its shiny, black, resin beads press
into my chest to pray the gay away
but every day I like dick more.
Mom says she’s going to take me
to Father Gregorio to get the demon out.
but I tell her to start with Tia Pepi
because she’s got at least three in there.
I feel a gust swoosh past my ear.
High in the air, a chancla floats like an angel
surrounded by a halo of light.
and just then, I black out.
__________
No, I Won
I run with the stinkbugs. the feathery leaves
of the tamarisk softly slide in my palm.
I tap the tree trunk, say hello, and I am
only seven birthdays in. an old sanitarium
sits beyond the windbreak. engines roar. voices call.
music floats. Peter Frampton, Jorge Negrete,
the Mamas and the Papas intertwine.
I see him running. footsteps on sand.
silt scratches the runway
once a WWII training base
for air force pilots, now
a drag strip on the circuit.
You wanna play?
we run together, plaid bell bottoms touching.
laughing. chasing butterflies while car engines rev.
arch their backs.
the light turns green.
we race, we run.
tires peel on the pavement.
tee shirts. Smokey and the Bandit. Super Friends.
past the tamarisks gossiping in a warm breeze.
he smiles, is sweaty. I won.
I smile back. I won.
he leans in for a hug
because a kiss would bring
ridicule, a beating.
his head on my shoulder.
I won.
I hold him closer.
No…I won.
__________
Sunday at the Wal Mart
a rusted shopping cart askew
its wheel lodged into earth,
a relic next to the fresh asphalt.
The Cure battles Guns n’ Roses
while my rosary loses
to my 16-year-old gaze
for it has tied up the white boy store clerk
again.
my cousin swore she saw her. there.
in the corner. next to the Raisin Bran,
behind the Cracker Jacks
came sweet sounds of crunching caramel corn.
It’s a sign from our Holy Mother to get off
your Richard Simmons diet and dump your loser boyfriend.
yet, she swears by it.
and the town knows all about
Dona Alicia’s son resurrected
after a concussion when he slipped
and fell chasing the last flat screen tv on sale.
the scent of cinnamon buns, the perspiration
of Coca Cola cans in an ice-cold tomb.
a shopping cart of returned items.
the doors tremble open. frigid wind. dust
swirls. a weekly circular slides
on cold tiles. Frozen Corn Dogs. Half Off.
faint aroma of buttery popcorn. our Holy Mother
walks past in a Raiders jacket
scolding her child, No more cookies.
You look like an Umpa Lumpa.
__________
Ricardo Moran is a past recipient of the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Beatific Magazine, Cider Press Review, Midwest Quarterly, Perceptions Magazine, East Jasmine Review, The Seattle Star, and Willa Cather Review. He is a former board member and current advisory board member for San Diego Writers, Ink. and is a former associate editor with Zoetic Press. His debut poetry anthology, Not Quite Heaven, from Broken Tribe Press, was published in 2025 and was shortlisted for the 2024 Tribe Poetry Award. He has delivered poetry readings in Albania, Ireland, and a book signing in Norway. He lives in Albania, enjoys traveling, and learning how to say “good morning” in as many languages as possible. In every timeline, you can find him reading, writing, and plotting right here: www.ricardomoranwriter.com
__________
To learn more about submitting your work to Boudin or applying to McNeese State University’s Creative Writing MFA program, please visit Submissions for details.
Posted in Pride: June '26 and tagged in #boudin, #poetry, Poetry