When our turn comes we feed quarters down the slot swing through the turnstile’s
rusted arms I look up shield my face from a sun that still feels American And as the city
shudders in and out of focus and the smell of gravel grilled meat and onion singes my nostrils
I spot a vendor on the street corner hawking in a voice that doesn’t match his limp a pair
of wooden crosses each of which he thrusts higher as though their height will make them
more symbolic attractive My mother pulls me harder pinches my wrist till it swells into a small
stigmata and despite what her body language tells me I shouldn’t see the shop owners shouting
their latest discounts the soldiers surveying the pothole-riddled sidewalks and streets
I gaze at a row of old seated women begging with barely any teeth mouthing phrases
of a practiced speech exposing without shame the same decay that’s brought my mother back
to her home country and that aggravates her enough to ignore them to let our bodies
toss our shadows like change at their feet
Esteban Rodríguez
Esteban Rodríguez is the author of the collections Dusk & Dust (Hub City Press 2019), Crash Course (Saddle Road Press 2019), In Bloom (SFASU Press 2020), and (Dis)placement (Skull + Wind Press 2020). His poetry has appeared in Boulevard, The Rumpus, Shenandoah, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. He is the Interviews Editor for the EcoTheo Review, an Assistant Poetry Editor for AGNI, and a regular reviews contributor for PANK and Heavy Feather Review. He lives with his family in Austin, Texas.
