Karla Cordero
Summer’s drought in my ankle
In my ankle a small wind stirs in the grass
In my ankle grass fiddles their thumbs gentle
In this street my ankle finds
sailor ships locked in ice—
In this street my country’s story
is a locked joint—a car-smoked-bone
My raincoat is swelling
My country is swelling double its normal weight
My socks swell
like stone-heavy weights
My country watches
its guilt—lick their paws clean
& a boy’s footprints are shot in the sand
like a wounded dog
My country
licks their fingertips from the cheek bones of a boy
they shot
& another boy they shot
& when they shot a third boy
My country
like a lost dog
slept
