Gavin Garza

A Palette of Sanger, California

Yellow is the color of scratchgrass fields

undulating to falling prayers, your abuelita’s

embroidery of Jesus Christ, her boxes

upon boxes of Gottschalks receipts

dated before 2008.

Red gets attributed to petals and prickly pears. Rarely

brick or the soft tissue under tearing calluses.

White is your neighbor's chihuahua who can't seem to shut the fuck up.

Brown is an orchard of cratered persimmons,

the scarf of a yucca, jumping spiders 

sunbathing on a car cover

for a Riviera needing a knee replacement.

Plus, a well seasoned flat-top grill

dug out for catering events.

Quinceañeras, you'd think, but it's for funerals.

Green is a pile of your house's hair clippings.

What else could it be?

Orange is an order of orejas, birds-of-paradise,

a pizza box swept into oncoming traffic,

your tía's Modelo when the sun hits her glass right.

Pale-blue is the memory of a regulator

who punked you for your take-n-bake,

or the mood after your first kiss

which God is happy to remind you of.

Don't ask for the color of the sky.

You'll never get the same horizon twice.

Silver is at the heart of your mother’s cooking,

and a trail of your father’s psoriasis flakes

like a snake track.        

                                    Oh! And the ‘76 Raiders.

How could I forget about the Oakland Raiders?