I AM NOT ALONE: THE DAY AFTER THE 2024 ELECTION

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.

THE POOL BOY WHO BROUGHT DOWN THE FALWELLS

by Guillermo Filice Castro

Giancarlo Granda, the former Miami hotel pool attendant whose accusations of an affair helped lead to Jerry Falwell's resignation from Liberty University last month, now lives in the Washington area. (Toni L. Sandys/The Washington Post September 18, 2020)

While some stay in the

shade, others sparkle by the pool

ogling the hunky towel boy,

peach Bellini in hand. And who

knows what else stirs in their minds, brought

forth by a pulpit’s power, dumped down

into a young life: Here is my prayer for the

day when we bid farewell to the world’s Falwells.

Guillermo Filice Castro is a poet and photographer from Argentina. His chapbooks include Mixtape for a War (Seven Kitchens Press, 2018) and Agua, Fuego (Finishing Line Press, 2015). His work appears in The Brooklyn Rail, What Rough Beast, The Normal School, Fugue, Court Green, La Presa, among many others. Instagram: @guillermo_f_castro

I PLAY INTO WHAT THEY FEAR MOST

by Guillermo Filice Castro

I have crossed you, taken your job. I am
a non-divine force, succubus to wholesome
American households. Here to clean you out,
me, a spick-and-span spic. May your ears
fester with my yips and squeals after you latch
the cage. Ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay. But ah,
what an angel Earth once was to all creatures,
prey and non-prey. And your prayer is open carry
and semiautomatic. Build a wall, build a fire.
In your man cave we can safely un-selfie
one another. Mira, mister, I’m hungry,
a rude corpse. The zombie Uber you never called.
I will rise from wherever you toxic-dump me.
Darling, I’ve come to oxycontin you.

Guillermo Filice Castro is a queer immigrant from Argentina. His most recent chapbook is Mixtape for a War from Seven Kitchens Press. He lives in New Jersey.

THE DAY CARRIE FISHER DIED

by Guillermo Filice Castro

Coffee shop photo by David Shankbone (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

How strangely innocent I was a few days ago.

How buoyant I felt before November.

How queer this weather is, warm, cold, warm.

At my usual stops, the coffee shop, the gym,

I’ve been struck by the disappearance
of the regulars.

Their names, birds never caught.

At least the staff at the deli wears name tags.

So what happened to Minh? Where’s
Arturo? And the three of us would
chat for a bit

our accents sideswiping
one another

over a logjam of latte orders and jelly donuts.

Aleppo used to be a lovely place, Minh said
with an ache as if she had been born there.

Count the days, the hours, until any store closes for good.
That’s New York for you,

New Yorkers like to think. Here today and…you know the rest.

This seems silent and precise, not to say fast.
Have I also cruised past the tipping point?

I repeat my order to some unibrowed youngster,

Hot, light, one Splenda. Not the pink packet, the yellow one.

Poor kid. Not his fault I’m feeling hostile, scared.

Tomorrow repeat the order.
Repeat the.
Repeat.

Arturo was my favorite

though he always regarded
everybody with flared nostrils,

gorgeous brown eyes half-way shut. Until he got to know you, that is.

Ever get the feeling you’re about to become invisible?
he asked me once. I wanted to pull off his hat and play

with his black hair. Tell him not to worry
like I believed it.

How he hoped to find a crown
for his girl back in Morelos. A crown?

Meanwhile a CGI princess Leia whispers at the end of Rogue One,

“Hope.”

Where did Arturo and Minh go? They must be OK
I tell myself. Found a job elsewhere.

And the regulars, well, just moved away.

But if I could

tell Arturo, wait, tell Carrie too
the snowflakes that dusted my head
this morning

were not even enough for a tiara.

Guillermo Filice Castro is a poet and photographer. He's the author of a chapbook of poems Agua, Fuego (Finishing Line Press, 2015). Recent work appears in Tarpaulin Sky, The Tishman Review, Glass Poetry, The Brooklyn Rail and others. A native of Argentina, he lives in New York City.

BRIEFLY BOWIE

by Guillermo Filice Castro

Last
night
I was
Bowie

briefly

gliding
from
empty
office
to
empty
office

asking
each
time

where’s
the dance?

only to continue
bowie-ing
my way
through
transparent
walls

in a pearl
grey suit
that
was

more
Cohen
than
Bowie

more

femme
than
butch

never
finding
anybody

much less the dance

my eyes
under a wide-
brimmed
hat

stage-worn
& hushed

as Mars


Guillermo Filice Castro is the author of Agua, Fuego (Finishing Line Press, 2015). He’s a recipient of an Emerge-Surface-Be fellowship from the St. Mark’s Poetry Project. A native of Argentina, he now resides in New York City.