CHRISTIAN HANZ LOZADA

Salvation on a Waikiki Bus

On a bus in Waikiki, a modern-day
Charles Bukowski sits next to me,
his face inflamed and red from boils
and burns. Where Hank lived to write,

this guy chose to pray and clad himself
in a black two-piece suit, more punish-
ment than comfort in tropical humidity.
I recognize his football-tucked grasp

on a copy of the Bible and Hawaii Parent,
with its smiling White girl on the cover
to bring comfort to us all. His soles
separate from shoes attempting to anchor

his body more strongly than face blemishes.
When he catches me looking, he raises
his books up, arm bent ninety degrees,
while he mutters blessings or a curses

behind his black mask. I watch the boils
bounce and sway with the rhythm of speech
and mass transit. In times of plague, Nani
texts me does this guy have Monkey Pox?

Should we be afraid? while I think of Father
Damian and the lepers and of Papa being told
to boil all the cloth, from shirts to sheets,
after his cousin’s visit from the colony

on Molokai. Faith is such a stupid thing,
but I trust his and text back: He’s got a mask
at least, and his skin is mostly covered,
which really means: I love my neighbor

more than myself and refuse to distance
my body from the boiled and burned
because he is probably too old to find
another God and write his praises.

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 authored the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not and co-authored Leave with More Than You Came With. His poems have appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, and the United Kingdom. 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.