Pheasant Run
In the summer of 2004, our CD player would jam the third track on Shakira’s Live and Off the Record. In black tulle, I scatter marbles under Ottoman legs, Race to my closet hideout - a tunnel to Mar Del Plata. In the hum of the dehydrator’s night, I fall asleep to the constant bellow - the bullfrogs singing folk. In and out of the crooked wooden fence, I push the monster truck tire for laughs - no, shouts. In tender hands for concrete yard timeouts. In here, In heat, how else mamá found fit. Under the banyan tree, my castle overlooks her. In her office, typing away, phone dial tremble, back hunched. In between my cries, she orders silence, nunca paro. Inside my tunnel, she is still. In time, mamá will wake fully rested; there will be no call. In the summer of 2004, the stereo frequency dulls a trickle of rain.