León Salvatierra: California Poets Part 11, Three Poems

León Salvatierra

October 20th, 2026

California Poets: Part XI

León Salvatierra

Three Poems

Nica in LA

(when I don’t think of the city)

I

I don’t think of downtown traffic

a thousand red lights between us

back and forth

from Willow Street to Sylmar—

barriers strung across the city

testing the desire in our flesh

II

I don’t recall the immigration court

the clock inching forward

on tortoise limbs

in Room 4330

palms damp on our knees

waiting for judgment

from a black robe

six more months

Your hand closed on mine—

my voice cracked

at the Sentence

III

The riots don’t haunt me anymore

we fled Florence and Normandie

as flames raged

like red devils beating on

building after building—

helpless angels

their wings hardened in concrete

against fiery tongues

(at the epicenter

Simi Valley’s court

untouched white blinds remained)

By sundown we entered paradise—

a food court

an Orange County mall

White couples rushing

to Highway to Hell

You and I alone

stayed longer than expected

in Panda Express

the manager put free food

into our hands

IV

I don’t think of our steps on Venice Beach

the break we stole from work

the letter you slipped into my bag

you whispered 

don’t open it yet

giants swelling their arms with iron

a woman tapping her tarot cards

your gaze

fixed on an Adonis

lifting dumbbells

nailed

naked to the cross

V

Your letter

slowed my blood

your reason for returning—

home where hope

had always fallen

like young bodies rising against dictators

the country we call

our Hell

I Became a Man the Day Selena Was Killed

(Los Angeles, mid-1990s)

I had just finished high school and was trying to find full-time work. I walked into Music Plus looking for a job application and found a line expanding and contracting like an accordion around the block.

People of all ages were waiting—children clutching posters, teenagers in neon windbreakers and high-tops, older couples holding plastic bags with CDs. I asked what was happening.

A woman shouted, Selena!

At the time, I didn’t really know her music. I knew of her—maybe from conversations where people talked about her being a Latina star.

I spotted a familiar face from hallways and homeroom. He waved me over, two posters in his hands. Do me a favor, man, he said. They’re only letting her sign one per person. Get this one signed for my sister.

I hesitated—I still wanted to ask about the job application—this place gets busy, there could be a job, I thought—but I joined the line.

The air smelled of hairspray, sweat, and perfume. The girl in front of me kept retouching her lipstick in a compact mirror. Behind us, two men debated whether Tejano was just a kind of cumbia. Near the entrance, a woman told her daughter to go to the payphone outside to call her tía Matilde—Tell her to come get a poster signed.

When it was finally my turn, I stumbled forward, feeling the line in its accordion expansion, the whole crowd breathing on my back—and there she was: Selena.

Smiling, radiant—

a kind of light that ignited my memory back to Xochitl,

my first adolescent love

She looked up as I handed her the poster.

You look familiar, I said.

She smiled again, Oh yeah? People say that a lot.

Honestly, I said, I think I’ve seen you before.

Where? she asked, her voice lilting, amused.

In Guatemala, years ago.

She broke into laughter—

that open, vibrant laughter that seemed to reach the whole store, expand into the streets, maybe even the entire city. Turning to the woman beside her, still laughing, she said,

I think I like this man!

The woman didn’t laugh.

Then she handed me the signed poster.

I don’t remember how much time had passed when I saw her face again on television.

Selena Quintanilla shot dead in Corpus Christi.

The camera showed the Days Inn motel, then moved to the same woman sitting beside her—

Yolanda Saldívar—her bodyguard, her killer.

It didn’t strike me until that moment:

Selena was the first woman

who ever called me

a man.

My Neighbor

a ritual dance around a center

in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

—Rainer Maria Rilke 

A noise arises from a dark corner

His ears perk

a rhythmic twitch on the tail

He leaps through an open window

after prey

He tires in seconds

Many birds have landed on his porch

and left the scene unscratched

Overweight he sighs

opens his mouth

devours pâté

climbs back to his sumptuous couch

onto his owner’s lap

The hands that rub his neck

burden his fur

a nightmare

Anyone would believe night’s laziness

seeps through his pupils

in his dream

he hunts across endless savannahs

The TV illuminates his eyes

Snaps him awake

His gaze fixes on the neck of his owner

the pulse beats unseen

Unblinking

he presses his claws into the denim

fur puffs

legs spring

        the artery

  flowing full

  beautiful

  it would be to kill

Author Bio:

León Salvatierra is a Nicaraguan poet and the author of To the North/Al norte (University of Nevada Press, 2022). His work appears in Here to Stay, Paterson Literary Review, Poetry, The Best American Poetry, and elsewhere. He teaches in the Chicana/o Studies Department at UC Davis.