Esteban Ismael

We took root in sidewalks when there were any, followed mile-long tracks in the street, hopscotch games in every direction could break your Mama’s back & every line your father’s missing spine, cracked gravel a slit in a sick arm, soft enough for a weed to poke through, a dandelion or two bright as yellow

I find you sitting in an open trunk in a forgotten corner of the garage. Hands at your sides, the iron-pressed gray-scale dress with black blossoms lifts slightly at the bottom, a pewter sun hat bends over an ink cloud of tight curls, a milky softness I’ve never seen smoothes the curve of your chin.