an instant biscuits package found at the very back of a failing refrigerator / eyelashes on my baby’s cheek that I swipe off, and hand to him to make a wish / the h sound the letter x makes in Spanish / the beauty mark underneath my ear / enchiladas topped with mole, queso fresco, and sour cream / lopsided, ugly chocolate cupcakes that my brothers devour in a minute / the social studies PowerPoints kids like me saw, when we didn’t make it into the Academically Gifted program / the tear stains on the poetry book I first saw myself in / the banda, cumbia and reggaeton blasting from my phone / the smile on my babies’ faces when I surprise them with hot cocoa and pan de dulce after reprimanding them / Corona bottles littering the house after a party / the worn out picture my uncle carries of his boys that he shows to everyone whenever he can / my papi’s neon construction vest / my grandma’s passed down chocoflan recipe / the second and third generations, that hold onto our roots as tightly as possible / the sandy, rocky trail of pulgas / the mamalonas driven without a license / the medallas of la Virgen de Guadalupe girls wear around their necks / my people, mi gente, with their gorgeous, bronze hands, and gentle accents
Haile Espin is a Mexican-American writer from NC. Her work has been published in The Louisville Review’s 2022 Spring Edition, Apricity Magazine, Valiant Scribe Literary Journal and elsewhere.