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by Erika Szostak

I Know You Would Have Named Her Lily

“Bimbo” logo emblazoned red and a teddy bear on a bus
I giggle—still you won’t pose for the picture like part of the group
We’ve wandered onto a Mexican naval base.
The sailors in black assume we’ve come for more photos and put
their machine guns down.

In the market, you pick up and
put down miniature sombreros, brightly striped blankets,
a dress that last year would have fit.

Cuanto cuesto, the question of the day is, how much?
How much can we stand of this not speaking the language—
it’s not the Mexicans I don’t understand.

I see that you’ve bought a black-haired doll
dressed boldly in magenta and a purple skirt
which you fumble while stashing quickly in a bag.

How much can we ignore this sunbright bubble dissolving
despite the similarity in our cheekbones, each our one sleepy eye?

I wonder if you remember the way you always
grasped my hand when we were small.

How much resentment can come before forgiveness is granted?