By Isabella Piedad Escamilla

your breath is spun / salt in my hands / my mouth your elbows / faux leather on / my steering wheel / which makes it easy / to pretend I’ve stolen / your skin I press / my palms against the wheel at red / lights your eye / lashes are shards / of mildew shards / of frosted glass / on a shower / door the whites of your / eyes the calcium / buildup in / my dishwasher / your teeth are fleshy / pearls of limestone / ready to crumble under / the weight of another’s / tongue neck / the spring of a pinball / machine resting / in my garage you’re / sprung baby’s / breath you’re / sprung rust on a blue / tricycle this would be easier / if you were / closer radio / static clattering /against the window this / would be / easier if grief / was like prayer / in a school / chapel / girls kneeling on / patterned carpet dressed / in plaid skirts I was / one of those / girls I didn’t know / this small / isolation of / each strand / would be / the frame of a steamroller / crushing / granite into baby / food your hair / trembles into tangled / bits of moths barely / there I live / in old / wives’ tales I know /from all the / lies we’ve told your / jeans are / ugly lucky / like my dog / the first / time he broke my skin / on my wrist and I / just turned / away / why / did I not bite him / back neon / oozing quiet / onto the grass if I’m so / weak / why / did I not / bite back we / know / we know we / know / forgetting is a / knot of running tar / you are but / I still fall / into troughs / of sleep my brain / fossilizes like / thin fish dead / in amber from / swimming through / your cavities / from breaking / into your dark

Isabella Piedad Escamilla is a Latinx writer from Salinas, California. A Bucknell Seminar for Undergraduate Poets fellowship recipient, she currently lives in West Lafayette, Indiana, where she studies plant genetics and poetry at Purdue University.