Two Poems

by Arman Avasia

Lorca’s Eyebrows

After Ferlinghetti

I wanna fuck
this Puerto Rican girl
so I buy a book
by a Spanish poet
and leave it lying
around my room.

First on the bedside table
so she’ll think I read
it every night.
I have to move it
so she doesn’t think
it puts me to sleep.

I keep it on my bookshelf
for a while
but that’s so anonymous
it defeats the purpose
and it reminds me
of all the other books
I haven’t read yet.

Next I use it
to prop up my desk’s
wobbly leg but that
just seems disrespectful
and it’s too thin anyway,
so I switch it out
for a Bible.

I start carrying it everywhere
in my overcoat pocket.
I start wearing an overcoat.

One night I dream
I have no heartbeat
that the sound
in my chest
is the flipping
of pages.
I wake up
to find I’ve been babbling
Spanish in my sleep.
This is according
to the chick in bed with me
who doesn’t understand
the implications
and is impressed
by how worldly I am.

The girl goes back
to Puerto Rico
and I’m stuck
with this skinny chick
whose got no ass
and likes lacrosse.
She hates poetry
so I crack open the book
for the first time
and read it to her.


We were stuck on the interstate for hours, waiting for the hurricane to hit. I had never
seen so many cars before. Stretched out motionless on the highway, they looked like the
armored segments of a dead centipede. I remember arguing with Stevie before we left. He
thought we were stupid for leaving. I told him a tree was going to fall and kill his family,
or at least destroy his house. I wasn’t scared because we had everything important with
us: the dogs, the baby formula, my Playstation, and some sandwiches, in case we got
hungry. My grandparents were with us too and even though it hadn’t started raining,
grandpa kept looking at the sky and shaking his head, while grandma pursed her lips and
spoke to God. There were no clouds that day, just a grey blanket hanging between us and
the sky. Milan was only a few weeks old and still had the scrunched-up alien look of a
newborn. He slept all day, which everyone agreed was very brave of him. Eventually, we
either grew tired of waiting or we grew brave too. My dad turned the car around and my
grandparents looked at each other and my mom held Milan a little more tightly and the
dogs whimpered and I stuck my head out the window and screamed as we drove back to
the eye of the storm.

Arman Avasia is a writer living in Saratoga Springs, NY. His work has appeared in Folio, Glass Mountain and Oblong Magazine. His music criticism can be found at

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