Jaswinder Bolina
The Source of Evening
Ambling into uptown for some tacos and a beer --
More like a taco and some beers! you’ll chirp later
over tacos and beers — sundown bronzing
the blanched posters of Venice and of Giza
in a travel agency window: two silver foxes
spooning in a gondola; two honeymooners
riding, sunset, camelback, into a sawtooth skyline
of tombs. But here, the domestic cicadas
grind the lid of night onto day, and later,
over a taco and a beer, you’ll say how
you’ve never actually seen one, only heard
them throbbing the hours shut, until the day
you actually see one, ambling into uptown,
bigger than a bruised toe on a utility pole
beside the cemetery gate — the sky a waning
shade of orange — its black tymbals shrieking
out for love, and you stand there shrieking along
until a friend of a friend honks, flipping you off
from the grinning window of her green Montego,
and later, over some tacos and beers, she’ll say,
what were you gawking at the other day on the corner
of Venice and Giza? And you’ll say the shriek of longing,
or you’ll say the voice of reason, or you’ll say the source
of evening. Or you’ll wish you’d said it. But you didn’t.
You didn’t say any of these things.
And now, it is night.
Ambling into uptown for some tacos and a beer --
More like a taco and some beers! you’ll chirp later
over tacos and beers — sundown bronzing
the blanched posters of Venice and of Giza
in a travel agency window: two silver foxes
spooning in a gondola; two honeymooners
riding, sunset, camelback, into a sawtooth skyline
of tombs. But here, the domestic cicadas
grind the lid of night onto day, and later,
over a taco and a beer, you’ll say how
you’ve never actually seen one, only heard
them throbbing the hours shut, until the day
you actually see one, ambling into uptown,
bigger than a bruised toe on a utility pole
beside the cemetery gate — the sky a waning
shade of orange — its black tymbals shrieking
out for love, and you stand there shrieking along
until a friend of a friend honks, flipping you off
from the grinning window of her green Montego,
and later, over some tacos and beers, she’ll say,
what were you gawking at the other day on the corner
of Venice and Giza? And you’ll say the shriek of longing,
or you’ll say the voice of reason, or you’ll say the source
of evening. Or you’ll wish you’d said it. But you didn’t.
You didn’t say any of these things.
And now, it is night.
--
Jaswinder Bolina’s most recent book English as a Second Language and Other Poems (2023) was awarded the 2025 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award from Claremont Graduate University. He is author of three previous poetry collections, The 44th of July (2019), Phantom Camera (2013), and Carrier Wave (2007), and of the essay collection Of Color (2020)
Jaswinder Bolina’s most recent book English as a Second Language and Other Poems (2023) was awarded the 2025 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award from Claremont Graduate University. He is author of three previous poetry collections, The 44th of July (2019), Phantom Camera (2013), and Carrier Wave (2007), and of the essay collection Of Color (2020)