Not the Bajau Yet

Christian Lozada

Because I have a large spleen

and can hold my breath

but am traumatized enough

to keep my head swiveling,

I ask Nani, an island child like me,

What’s the most landlocked

state you can live in?

as if being inland and diving

are equal amounts of claustrophobia.

She asks “Is there a lake?

Can I follow a river?”

I say yes.

“Then Pennsylvania,”

she says. “Two hours

from New York

and touching a great lake.

You?” As an American child,

I have no feel for geography

and say “In for a penny,

in for a Pitt or a Phil.”

We laugh as we pull up

on our house, uphill

from the sea. The air,

when marine-thick and tide

low, smells like salt, decay,

and promise. This is home,

but our blood says to make

the stilts strong and tall

for when the tide changes

and the ocean returns.

Author: Christian Lozada

Christian Hanz Lozada aspires to be like a cat, a creature that doesn’t care about the subtleties of others and who will, given time and circumstance, eat their owner. He wrote the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, Africa, and Europe. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.

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