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We chug along, the sun rising like a paintbrush dipped in orange, fiery hot. Stacks of wood and other industrial materials teeter on the banks. Water. Waves — are they waves? — ripple calmly like someone stirring in morning's first hint of wakefulness.
Read MoreFully crush, pulled beneath, drag along to totally quenched and
all so quash
like a leaf on a lake.
Read MoreHello my name is [An Anachronism].
Did I ever tell you I was afraid of becoming obsolete?
She will never tell you
but the girl who shrugs
away from your touch,
who faces you
with chin down, eyes up,
slips from sight
as all eyes are watching,
feels anything but coy.
My grandmother was born in D.F. but grew up in Cuba. Her father owned a sugar factory. He had strong arms and an elegant mustache. It was a life of tropical birds.
Read MoreShe watches them now as they are spread long-limbed over the dirt, their fingers reaching into the redness and the grit, their elbows and knees always dusty, always rubbed a little raw from their kneeling at play, this serious activity of theirs, eyes grave and directions passed between them in sensible whispers, never shouted because her children do not raise their voices.
Read MoreI packed my mom in Tupperware
from the dollar store. She always wanted
to go to the Bahamas, even before
she’d gone to sand—before her bones
could be mistaken for broken
shells.
His grandmother snipped the wild
pink tea roses for my corsage
from the bush by the gravel
driveway…
There are two stories to this space. There is us, in the evening, making dinner at ten pm. Starving from daily activities. Wearing partial outfits of t-shirts and boxers (be careful not to burn yourself), as we spin in sock feet.
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