Time is a crimson stain spreading through my girlhood, spilling over the woman I would rage and bleed to become. In the river of my home, the submarines prowl in and out. The autumn carries crinkly, shiny voices through the cemetery and across the street to the park. The fathers built that park with their own hands. I go to the clam shack, the ramshackle walmart, the school of ghosts and girlhood patrolled by coyotes. A chalk drawing of me, my yellow dreams, and a volcano fill the sidewalk to my home. To reach me, you must play hopscotch in Italian.
Miniature Moon 