by Jennifer Jean

Los angeles

I’m about to land.
& though the rust’s been gone, the air siphoned into blue,
the burning is burning lungs again.

I want to believe I mind the invisible hell
on bronchioles—
mind the floating particulates I read about somewhere.

I want to see all the usual fire-followers—
the poppies, the mariposa lilacs.
See how time does & does not stand still.

My father will live, still,
in a motel room. He won’t turn on the TV, ever. He will be
aburrido, as the motel maid once told me.

& I’ll be as anointed
as when I first descended into this troposphere—
beguiled already by the uncoiled souls of my creators.

But, I can’t remember that. Or the next landing, or the next
exhale. I’m about to touch down now
& can only remember the time after my first exile—descending,

at age seven, via American Air, into the cachupa
soup of my homeland—
I did not know Disneyland

or my one-thousand-and-one Space Mountain whiplashes.
I couldn’t breathe then, I was so excited. I was so unused
to smog. There were no good cries then,

no invitations to God
to resuscitate a life as it heaves in—
only gasping & hacking till it was best

to merely tear up
at the rate of rain
in Los Angeles.

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Jennifer Jean’s debut poetry collection is: The Fool. Her awards include: a Disquiet FLAD fellowship; a Her Story Is residency; and, an Ambassador for Peace Award. Her poems and co-translations appear in: Poetry Magazine, Rattle, Waxwing, and The Common. Jennifer is the translations editor for Talking Writing Magazine.