Delia Cristina Sandoval

My marrow, engorged by years of sediment breaks through the first layer—the crust—my skin—my mother’s skin: Delia. We have been together for so long.

I once prodded at her belly button and she fed me with her bones I leeched took her calcium I took her time,

My teenage scene: remote control flying through the air, grazes her temple. She finds this unforgettable. Not a lot goes on between her scalp and time. Her layers have not grown the way mine has outside the confines of this planet, this mammoth, uncontrollable thing we call Modesto.

She buries her hands in the sand. She traces the phantom cord between us. I know it’s a phantom. But I tell her it’s a garden.