by Carolina Hotchandani
Sometimes I believed the future lived
under the surface
of the present,
and if I tried, I could
unveil it. The way my mother
peeled back the artichoke’s scales,
paring away a light fuzz
to reach the heart.
Lately, I’m afraid of the cores
I find strewn about the counter.
My father’s eating peaches,
cherries, plums.
So many bananas.
He even tries to eat the peels.
I remember how he’d prick
his finger each day—
a globule of blood rising
from beneath this moment
to its outer tip. He’d stamp
his blood onto a strip to learn
if he was fine.
Now he takes in the sweetness
he always feared.
As a child
I shuddered at that lance,
that scarlet sphere.
I worry: his worry’s gone.
Tira as minhocas da cabeça,
my mother says.
Pull those worms out of your head.
Imagined futures:
I need you to stay under
the grass, wriggling deep in the earth.
Close to its unknown core.
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