Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons
The seasoned mosquitos chain smoke cigarettes
behind the palm leaf covered in the midday sherbet
light that shines like chili oil on the horizon.
There are no clean places to rest, so we sit
on top of milk crates that leave patterns on
the back of my thighs, some of which I pretend
are tracks leading me from one curve to the other.
The goat milk in the fridge tastes so fresh I suck
the flavor from my gums after swallowing- sweet bachata
plays from the radio. The lights are out again but no one has noticed,
with the way the río holds the sun and brings it right in our faces.
When my prima rises to dance, her off brand sneakers scratching its
sound on the dirt floor, the cows come forward and
blow cool air at her- with this she twirled, her curls pushed up like a crown,
until all the animals from the finca saw her and thought she was wind.
Annabelle Canela is a first generation Dominican American poet, born and raised in Bronx, NY, she graduated with a BA in Creative Writing in Spring of 2020. She loves bachata, maduros, and hoop earrings.
