Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
Almost all fathers are the same: they want flowers. They tell their daughters to eat flowers for breakfast, and put flowers in their hair.
My mother is standing on the bank of the river, clutching her carton of easy drink, her stomach tube, her plastic vial of oxygen.
the name makes me think what fear astonishment I’d have felt had I been at Piney Point and seen Adelantado de Soto with glinting