by Guillermo Filice Castro
José our delivery man
drops off a package
José who of late
has begun calling me
by my given name
not the shortened version I usually offer
to those who cannot roll their R’s
Oh what are you bringing me today?
I ask José in a way befitting our
developing chumminess
jovial (I suppose)
workplace banter
José responds with a feisty What’s up Papi!
“I’m bringing the vote that made us win,” he adds.
Takes me a second or two to process that.
“Us?” I say as I sign for the soft pack. “Win?”
The reality I was keeping at bay
swoops right back down
claws extended open beak
letting out a hellish screech
the reality that filtered into my sleep
last night
as if water through strata and monsters
as votes were being counted:
The sweaty
bald man a cross
between a comic book villain
and a Bond baddie
in whose servitude I seemed to be
genuflecting and smiling as I fanned
the villain’s ego with nodding approval
as he pulled me into his chest
squeezing out my breath
José who the other day told me
he had a daughter
(I’m thinking of his daughter)
and once tried to serve
in the military
smiles and pops back
into the freight elevator
Us? Who’s “us”?
All I do is smile back,
parcel in hand,
doors closing.
Guillermo Filice Castro is the author of Mixtape for a War and Agua, Fuego. His work appears in many journals, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and featured in The Best American Poetry 2023. Born and raised in Argentina, he lives with his husband in New Jersey.