my dad and i spit the same blood. thunderstorms roll to the sound of our bodies
contracting television fevers. my family goes to church the same way, hair greasy,
spines stooped, iphones frying in our pockets from a thousand different heat deaths.
the bishop wants to break us bone by bone by bone. once when i was nine he jumped
the pulpit and sewed my mantilla to my skull, it’s the closest i ever got to becoming
the holy mother. at home we sit in our television fevers. when the internet goes out i
slug watermelon into the blender and the noise swallows our silence. at age twelve
sammy asks if the kids at school stay mean. i blink and he lowers into the ground.
every september i light him a candle and sing it is well it is well with my soul. i sing
for other kids too but hymns are just the sound of our mouths firing blanks. my
mom’s ipad explodes in the heat. want to hear something pathetic? in high school
elena had a seizure and i hauled ass to the ER, terrified she’d filled her organs with
plum pits and manteca and grocery bags. before printing our ticket the white nurse
crossed her arms and told me to empty my pockets. i obeyed immediately. i wanted
to show the world we were good.
Elisa is a student and poet from Spokane, Washington. She is a senior at Whitworth University, studying English. She serves as the poetry editor for Rock & Sling Magazine.