could be starburst, a deep space nebula,
or neurons firing across synapse.
It’s all there: orange slices, the threads
from an embroidered red strawberry,
stains on white pressed cotton.
The moment. The moment from which
to push forward into details of being
a supernova, an interstellar explosion
of dust and gases among stars,
us, inside. Silence. As a little girl,
I sat on a pillow and was good. They stacked
boxes onto a truck. We didn't go to the store. Papi
wasn't with us. I didn’t ask the right
questions. I didn’t know how. Maybe
the cement sidewalk wasn’t that cold. Maybe
I didn’t have to wait that long. Maybe
it was all for the best.
One day we got into a station wagon
and when I woke up,
loneliness began . . .
