girlchild

In my life of still dreaming the trailer park, I walk through all of its streets. They are short streets, it is a short life. It is nighttime, the moon shines through the yellow streetlights onto dirt and cement and gravel and every pool of light and every shadow is all my own. There is no sound in the whole park except the sound of my voice, loud like a vandal, like a baseball bat, bouncing from corrugated wall to corrugated wall, yelling back at me from empty carports and half-open sheds, so confident, crazy and strong, I can't be sure if it is my own or my Mama's, if it is my own or Grandma's bones, full of both threat and promise, walking along the Calle and waking it with these words, one word for each step: I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven andhell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven and hell flower. I am a heaven 

Arriving February 2012 from Farrar, Straus and Giroux