looks like my cousins with his sharp brow
ledging over deep-set and close-together eyes
and teeth wedging forward like a ship’s bow

As kids / my cousins and I would watch wrestling
at times vaguely / at others overtly racist
and always toxic with measurements of “testicular

fortitude” // their love for wrestling ended
after attending their first live show
where they saw the villain cradle and tuck

the hero’s head to keep them safe from devastating
finishing moves // “it’s so fake” they said
complaining that paralysis was the freakish

and not the norm // but they never saw Nick Gage
this dude who looks like we’re related
with his broken knees and hips and scar-tissued

forehead that puckers over that familiar brow
in poorly organized hashtags // they never saw
light bulbs shattered on heads to signify
the industrial everyday used in violence
if they had / they might have changed careers
from loading docks and handyman work

to cracking someone over their shoulders
with a folding chair, filling each swing
with the rage of unfulfilled and unmelanated

american promises up until that last moment
before metal meets skin / when you pull back
and misdirect the trajectory just enough

to keep the bang and lessen the pain
while the suckers and marks in their seats
cheer or boo but pay to see you

do something with this body that can take
the pain and break and heal
and keep going / going / going

Christian Hanz Lozada (he/him) 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 wrote the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, Africa, and Europe. 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.