Abilenian

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 

hard-hearted

& not caring how nice somewhere else 

  might-have-been.