ISSUE 13

Isabel Lanzetta

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for Rafael

The leak lasted for weeks, gas cradled in the backyard where nothing grew but weeds that turned teething and spur-like in the fall. I’d thought it rotten soil from the air conditioner’s steady drip as the summer droned on, never noticing the upturned pipe with silent hiss. How I thanked the tenuous stream of our lives when the hard-hatted man pulled his truck around and capped the flow, drills overshadowing our terrible, restless sleep. We hope to be lucky in other ways. I ask you about the lawyer’s call, the ream of paper I printed in the office. Another night we pass a murder of bulging, black sedans blockading the roadside restaurant where you ate the night I was out. The liquor store glowed like one gigantic coyote eye over the sidewalk, watching the silent cars, watching us and our horror. On campus, students pull taut, blue banners. Each wears a t-shirt with ICE Volunteer in straight, white letters they sell to passersby. I forget where to be afraid. This has all happened before. Years ago, my grandmother got the ruler on the back of her hand for forgetting the hard and unforgiving patina of vowels that are now my own. I listen to the news in 30-second increments, not knowing what to do with my hands. You, my sky, show me how to love across fear. Not despite it, but letting it blow on your back. I want those I love to be unscathed by this solemn country. I want enough time in the war to run to them, planting flowers in my wake. After the poisoning pipes were torn out from behind our home, I did not hold my breath in anticipation. I took a hammer and planted trailing lantanas the color of the sun. I allowed you to turn me towards love. Blossoms that could withstand even the most violent heat, that unfurl even in the midst of winter. A canopy of light.

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