chapter 10. A Bosom Friend. poem: El Pajarito Rubio. by Jessica Lizardi.

El Pajarito Rubio


Counting thirteen cars in line

by color,

he is Queequeg thumbing

his book.

This deliberately certain regularity

of sequence,

pious patterns and codes only

he knows.

Why isn’t truly why, but more

like when.

When the mean children will meanly stare-

his eyeless soul,

like a little blonde bird flying sideways,

yet straight,

into its own space and purpose.

He is free.

This petite bird, a smallish funny man

who lives

not for his guilty mother, denying the

jack knife,

whittling some kind of idol for her

to worship.

Even I am obsessively organized

for most.

There’s nothing wrong with staring

into space…

Next week they will give my pajarito

Chloral Hydrate.

As he gags they will attach 167 electrodes

to his head.

We are also trying organic, gluten free

casein free

and something-else-free.  I don’t


He laughs in colors, baila for his papi,

shapes singing,

while I sit on my counter, cross-legged

with Coldplay

trying to write a poem. His language,


The tongues he sings and recites in,


notes, yet communicating with us


These unearthly tattooings that will make

him genuine.

Or perhaps, the new normal, according to

my step-mom.

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