by Leslie Marie Aguilar


Home is obsidian mosaics framed in concrete 

& a sun that burns through shadows & shade. 


Home is a wilting pecan tree in a backyard 

& a chain link fence that would rust if it rained. 


Home is a bloodhound howling in a lawn of rocks 

& a cemetery of pets lying beneath a basketball hoop. 


Home is a flea market in a school parking lot 

& corn on the cob sold alongside chicharones. 


Home is root beer fizzing between cracks in teeth, 

& sunflowers soaking in ribboned mason jars. 


Home is golden headbands threaded through braids 

& white lace dresses under black cardigans that itch. 


Home is shooting whiskey until the bar is a bed 

& cheap liquor tastes like a wooden dream catcher. 


Home is mesquite bonfires in dusty fields 

& dirt stains on knees too drunk to walk. 


Home is leaving the county only to return 


& not caring how nice somewhere else