You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies

“We have no work for you, but I can hire your daughters.” He would try to touch me.

            Those moments accumulate in the interstices of someone else’s

history. “Let’s go inspect the field.” It was dark, but the insects glimmered as if to

      ​​​​​​​      distract. My body followed my hair, pulled

taut into the field’s secrecy. “There, the almond orchard.” We call them ​​​​​​​fields de calzón,

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      the ó bursting like ripe fruit.

“She was always ready in a red nightgown.” The streams nearby, the varicose veins

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      he couldn’t describe. Every acre wasn’t his to cultivate.

“Where have you been hiding her?” The field blinks. Hums. Ruptures. A confined

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      darkness punctured with small consolations of light.

The field, infinite mirrors at one intersection. My face echoing & echoing. “I don’t

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      have an answer for that.” Frogs scream for help.

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      Our faces echo awfully the aggregate.