I look like my father, inexplicably
blueberry pancakes and corn tortillas
sweet potato piling high
on our kitchen table.
my clumsy Spanish on the subway
my arms wide
my skull stateside
Indiana beings brimming
East Chicago, the places of someone’s childhood
I barely remember that small house
age six I looked for four-leaf clovers in the grass
of my grandmother’s lawn.
in the end she didn’t remember me
my father reminding her gently
and then leaving his cell phone in the airport
throwing up black coffee in the hotel room.
my wide flat tan face
remember when our people sacrificed to the sun
to make the rains come?
Joanna Acevedo: "I am a writer and student living in New York. I am currently pursuing a BA in Fiction from Eugene Lang the New School for Liberal Arts. In my spare time, I work at an ice cream shop and play roller derby."