POEM
Ana Padilla Castellanos
It started like this: during my first visit the doctor ordered a test and told me there’s not enough iron in my blood. It’s hereditary, mom said before packing her supplement in my suitcase — she’ll buy another one when there’s money. It started with: lack. Now, every morning I juice oranges on my desk, cutting board propped between French books because she said vitamin C helps with absorption. Someday, I want to give her the most expensive of oranges, peeled, no pith. I want to say pith when she’s crying, her laugh a wet chuckle I can always replay.
16 | May 2022
