My local bakery sells donuts at .90 cents
I walk there at dawn to remember my mother
My mother isn’t dead, but we are strangers now.
This walking to bakeries was our shared ritual.
I called them panaderias back then
Although we never spoke when we walked
I suspected she was in search of something significant
but now there’s a swollen country between us
and I’ll never know for sure
on my way to the bakery, I pass through a lake
that long ago belong to a slave-owner
until the Earth stole it back and swallowed it whole.
Lake Eola isn’t a lake- it’s a sink hole
named after the slaveowner’s sweetheart.
A story as southern as pecan pie,
peach cobbler, and white supremacy.
Today, the air is thick with the stench of sulfur
and trees grow triumphantly through the water.
if I arrive before the sun wakes
I’ll find a flock of American White Ibis
sleeping serenely in the Cypress Tree,
insensible to the violence they rest in
Even in the dark, I notice the irony
but I know better than to think of it
thoughts like these make ghosts out of sanity
I slide a soggy dollar to the birdlike women
at the bakery, and she hands me a stale donut
above us, a dozen lazy buzzards ride
thermal ways around skyrises.
By Grecia Espinoza
Grecia Espinoza is a Brooklyn based poet. She moved to New York to start her M.A. in English and American Literature at New York University. Her writing is inspired, almost paradoxically, by the language of confessional and Black Arts poetry both of which have been the center of her research. . She’s currently working on a poetry collection that she hopes to finish by the end of the year.