Sandra De Anda

You seemed to acknowledge that the same things I needed in here

I needed out there

a drag a rollercoaster ride a Pacifico.

I was somewhere in your body,

small cell origami hanging like a Little Tree air freshener

that could not hide the scent of that fresh asphalt my father drove over

with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth,

unknowingly piercing the clouds above,

the sky folding into the potholes where your tears would collect

& where I would be born.

Art Laboe was like a second father

seated next to you in that vermillion Chevy.

You didn’t know where you were going

just who you were going with,

a complete stranger who didn’t have jaws for teeth at least not then.

You were too young to drive to drink to know that these slow drives

would become your second home when you could no longer wear this new life.