Prose
Prose
An Origin Story
I could talk your ear off about the current state of Mexican-American literature.
Ingress
Dust remembers what we try to forget, preserves the hidden, and keeps evidence in wait.
To My Father, on the One-Year Anniversary of His Death
I am standing at the ironing board, running a hot iron over a folded and stitched-together strip of quilting cotton to make bias tape.
How Things Are Done
The way restaurants work has never been fair — yet everyone just seems to accept it.
Rupture
The first time I watched you kill a fish, you were methodical and emotionless, striking it in one blow.
Beyond the Distance
What makes a country great? Surely the answer doesn’t lie in vast tracts of forest land that have been converted into concrete megastructures
I Keep Counting Up
Four weeks. Four weeks and still the virus. Things that were once normal now seem absurd.
Bury Me Next to Your Name
“I need you to do something for me,” you said as you sat across from me in the locker room.
The Way we Are Buried
The true cost of dying lies beyond the sick. It buries itself in the people who try to love the sick.
The Scent of Oud
I detected — above the waft of Auntie Anne’s pretzels and the affront of vanilla and eucalyptus from Bath and Body Works — the warm, musky scent of oud.
