Tony DelaRosa’s litany of love to “My Lunch Box” is the poem of my inner child’s dreams. Truth and imagination dressed equally in delightful musicality, brace yourself for the devastating (empowering?) evolution from “lunchbox” to “Lunchable.” To every reader whose lunchbox was (or is) “everyone’s ‘yuck my yum,’” you’re welcome.
— Eugenia Leigh, Poetry Editor
My Lunch Box
after Clint Smith
My lunchbox be transformer
My lunchbox be Dinuguan one day
the dugo be the chocolate sauce of the pig
the ritual words most Filipino parents abused
to conceal the truth behind a slaughter
My lunchbox be Dillis the next day
the Whoever Smelt It, Dealt It finger-fish
with the side of vinegar dip
My lunchbox be an homage to sawsawan
My lunchbox be an entire conversation with one kamay
My lunchbox be “my momma did that” (pointing to its ribcage, while
grains of rice celestial to each finger)
My lunchbox be transformer though
My lunchbox be Greek mythology in the Midwest
My lunchbox be forming crop circles
One day, my lunchbox made Bobby’s face cringe into his Wonder Bread
and made Chris’ nose fall off like the Sphinx
while Felix escaped into his Lunchable
My lunchbox be unlovable, urban legend, Unesco World Heritage site forgotten
My lunchbox be wishing for a new mouth: new teeth, new tongue, new breath, new lungs
My lunchbox be everyone’s “yuck my yum”
My lunchbox be transforming full moon
My lunchbox be having surgery again,
the doctors say that we only have to pay on the front end
My lunchbox knew that was a lie, but went Optimus Prime anyway …
My lunchbox be Lunchable in a minute
My Lunchable be lovable now
it wears plastic like a Ken Doll
its ribcage, a bento box of Ritz Crackers
and Kraft Singles
My Lunchable be American Born Chinese
My Lunchable be David Blaine carrying itself with no handles
levitating into a dream
where Chris’ nose magically reappeared
where Bobby’s face smiled
my forbearance on fleek, as if the latter always was,
as if everyone was so forgiving.
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