Esther chewed on the inside of her cheek. She sat in the reception room of Gibbons & Hamilton, LLP waiting for the receptionist to call her for an interview.
dad smokes outside West Ridge cafe/ friday nights at ten/ after coffee, two creams no sugar/ shelf burritos and twizzler sticks/ gone hard and cold at our corner table
Of the many untranslatable phrases of my life, “paradero” is among the least translatable. It’s Spanish for “the place where one stops,” but it is so much more.
My legs are covered in that thin film of dirt, left over from lying in the grass,/ And from staring at the parts of the trees that vanish when the air becomes callous, no longer sweet and wet fire.