Christina Lloyd
Bio: Born in Hong Kong and raised in Manila and San Francisco, Christina Lloyd holds a master's in Hispanic languages and literatures from UC Berkeley and a master's in creative writing from Lancaster University. Her poems appear in American and international journals, including Poetry Daily, Poet Lore, Poetry Ireland, Westerly, The North, fron//tera and Canadian Woman Studies. She is currently pursuing a PhD in creative writing at Lancaster.
CRESTED BLACK MACAQUE
After the first simian selfie
Your brow a rubber visor, your eyestawny, glassy dolls' eyes clinking open
and shut. White-whiskered and pink-gummed, your steel wool fur swings me back
a quarter century to sixth grade geography. Learning in earnest Borneo, Java, Sumatra,
I shaped bits of colored felt into countries glued on a styrofoam globe. Celebes, tilting star
in the archipelago, fingers floating in several seas. I imagined volcanic vents, the forest floor,
but never saw you foraging there. And now you tilt your head, posing for a school portrait.
and shut. White-whiskered and pink-gummed, your steel wool fur swings me back
a quarter century to sixth grade geography. Learning in earnest Borneo, Java, Sumatra,
I shaped bits of colored felt into countries glued on a styrofoam globe. Celebes, tilting star
in the archipelago, fingers floating in several seas. I imagined volcanic vents, the forest floor,
but never saw you foraging there. And now you tilt your head, posing for a school portrait.
PONCE DE LEÓN’S HOUND
All rib and sinew, it lunges from the ship
onto the frothing coast. The Borinquen see loam yield
to leathery paws, fear their blood and milk will lather
its hot, brindled coat. Stranger than the harquebus, sharper
than Toledan blades, its narrowing grimace recedes at his master’s call:
Bercerillo, Bercerillo. Stroking its thorax he hums cradle songs.
onto the frothing coast. The Borinquen see loam yield
to leathery paws, fear their blood and milk will lather
its hot, brindled coat. Stranger than the harquebus, sharper
than Toledan blades, its narrowing grimace recedes at his master’s call:
Bercerillo, Bercerillo. Stroking its thorax he hums cradle songs.
BORGES’ GRIFFIN
He chases it down a maze of texts—Dante, Herodotus, Marco Polo all point to its whereabouts—
and when they are face to face, its thick beak grazing his forehead, he lures it into his nook: the gilt-leaf
pages of his books enough to charm itinto staying forever to guard his cache of words. Borges dreams his sonnets;
talons pierce the Persian rug. Once in a while he strokes its downy breast and it purrs. In return, it plucks
a feather from its wing, passes it over its master’s eyes, so that he may see.
and when they are face to face, its thick beak grazing his forehead, he lures it into his nook: the gilt-leaf
pages of his books enough to charm itinto staying forever to guard his cache of words. Borges dreams his sonnets;
talons pierce the Persian rug. Once in a while he strokes its downy breast and it purrs. In return, it plucks
a feather from its wing, passes it over its master’s eyes, so that he may see.
SIAMESE FIGHTING FISH
(BETTA SPLENDENS)
We zeroed in on the shelf cluttered with cupsthat kept them suspended in ounces of water. Their bodies shone like made-up eyelids:
all shimmering blues and maroons, magentas.Some fins were tight and tidy, combed lashes; others drooped into tired fans.
Our squirming attention knocked one of the cupsover. A fish twitched in the spill. With the grace of a glass harpist, our gran lifted it up
and placed it in the now empty cup, then trickled water from the other cups into it. She re-arranged them all, adjusting water levels. No music rang out
from her handiwork. The bettas frowned, tuneless. She ushered us away from their shy, iridescent display, blood dribbling from fingers cut up on chipped rims.
all shimmering blues and maroons, magentas.Some fins were tight and tidy, combed lashes; others drooped into tired fans.
Our squirming attention knocked one of the cupsover. A fish twitched in the spill. With the grace of a glass harpist, our gran lifted it up
and placed it in the now empty cup, then trickled water from the other cups into it. She re-arranged them all, adjusting water levels. No music rang out
from her handiwork. The bettas frowned, tuneless. She ushered us away from their shy, iridescent display, blood dribbling from fingers cut up on chipped rims.
A CAT NAMED MAÑANA
After Sympathy, by Remedios Varo
Our gran cut her other hand on broken glassto rescue a kitten trapped in a Manila dumpster. Once home, she nestled it in a shoe box filled
with crumpled paper and a ticking clock for heartbeats. Strange to chance upon this familiar portraitin a California café. Stranger still to recognize
a scene from before my life, before Mañana’s death.The color palette’s the only discrepancy—not a jet black cat, but a tabby; not chestnut locks, but a spiky red do.
Remedios has captured the female/feline bond: their eyes bulge with kindred kindness, their electricity sparking off in constellations round the room.
Perhaps Remedios, war émigré, avid occultist, foreknew I would view it when I most needed to. Her love letter to me across the trauma of time.
with crumpled paper and a ticking clock for heartbeats. Strange to chance upon this familiar portraitin a California café. Stranger still to recognize
a scene from before my life, before Mañana’s death.The color palette’s the only discrepancy—not a jet black cat, but a tabby; not chestnut locks, but a spiky red do.
Remedios has captured the female/feline bond: their eyes bulge with kindred kindness, their electricity sparking off in constellations round the room.
Perhaps Remedios, war émigré, avid occultist, foreknew I would view it when I most needed to. Her love letter to me across the trauma of time.
