Sara Borjas – Girl

Sara Borjas


Garbage cans again when I close my eyes. A girl in a one piece
treading water our father filled a garbage can with.

My hand grips the edge of something empty:
an apology, a simple green tub, her body pushes 

a broom along the floor. My father carves slow jams 

into the summer heat, as Chicanos do.
I am fed up with this crooning, this same 

lyric about how love rips us. Here, the ground  
will always be tiny cracked faces 

of smoldering clocks. The empty bottle

of vegetable oil is leaking, the small refrigerator 
filled on the patio, a broken fan. My mother 

lights a candle before she drinks.
I still have this face 

and everything I’ve never said. 
Water, like memory, swirls loose

the brink of my body. It is 
becoming impossible to remain.

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