Sofía Gamboa

Curbing my Fertility

Daisies get trampled by milky and newly-manicured feet,

Or plucked and knotted into crowns, chains, or jewelry. Some of them have pink on the ends of their petals,

Like the bloody tips of my fingers after changing a tampon.

The hometown parade comes towards me, but doesn’t blare as loud as it did when I was a girl. The kids on the country club floats aim for heads with their water guns, making me wonder who raised them, making the toddlers cry.

I’ll walk home if I have to.

I have to.

Later, fireworks wiggle straight up and then burst at the top, dispersing fiery bombs far down. I always worry that they will hurt the grass. 

We watch them from the Safeway parking lot, even though we both disapprove of the 4th of July.

So, we talk about baby Violet instead, who flutters past me every now and then, patiently waiting her turn. I want to bring her here,

to be with us, but only once July is over. 

My house, the only one on La Vuelta without some awfully large American flag, whose reds and blues look so sickly against the greens of the little “semi-rural” piece of picket-fenced hell that I have to go back to every summer, 

to get ice cream with the kids I babysit,

While curbing my fertility.

Though if I were back in The Old Country, I would have daisies and violets already.

Carmel Mission, 1771

Around the boy’s grave,

Shards of abalone shells,

Refracting rainbows 

Protecting him from Hell

The little girl lies,

Surrounded by a rose bush.  

Their mother, restless, lifeless,

Scattered with pebbles, 

Kicked onto her as

She inches towards her children

Hips still cracked 

Palms open to catch 

The Rosary

Falling from

A cypress tree.