She was born in Guatemala. She insists we watch shows set in Los Angeles. In her Mustang, she followed a mechanic to New York, Denver, and Chicago, cracked open her bones for him and melted back into Los Angeles. When she dies, she will die Los Angeles, her cartilage has earned it.
My mother was one of a few Koreans in an area of mostly Latinos, who worked
under the metal roof of an abandoned warehouse converted into a shopping
emporium—car stereos, healing potions, sneakers, gold jewelry, toys.
Here is when I hear its syncopated hatching.
I see the blood and think it wine,
I wonder if she will lick it from the floor,
suck the dye back out from the egg.
What friends you have usually just wind up dead or so I hear.