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.