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