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 rings
around a freshly-sunk bruise, a parabola of seeds
a rising puff of smoke
Even then the strong craving to come up on weeds:
swinging at chewed baseballs,
bats wrapped in duct tape, running over makeshift
plates, bricks & a Frisbee in the middle
of the road. Still, the game would turn to an all-out
hustle if that small flower
lay like a gold coin in the dirt. When it comes down
to it, there’s no such thing
as teammates: it’s fist to whoever’s trying to get it
over you. All for what we knew
was a promise that breaks with one breath, a seed-
shaped cloud becoming thin air.
Holding this cotton bud we’d do what we learned
at an early age: put all we got on
the gamble of bust seeds in the wind with a blunt
force the lungs can afford
& watch this white trickle loosen in different directions,
unpaved alleys, busy avenues
feed for the birds. How many took root
in the shallows, seedlings
in a wedge of sidewalk, in the yards
of weeds, trails cleared
by treading feet—these hopeful green
buds, tender, a promise
flowering in the front pocket even in
the hardest places, these
all too familiar futures, familiar seedlings
wilting on every street.
Esteban Ismael teaches literature and writing workshops with the San Diego Community College District. In 2016, he was awarded First Prize in Poetry in Dogwood and named a Second Rounder in the Austin Film Festival’s teleplay competition. His poems are forthcoming or have recently appeared in Conduit, The Journal, Spillway, Poetry Daily, Puro Chicanx Writing of the 21st Century and The Massachusetts Review, among other fine journals.
