Pickles, Laredo, Texas
by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn



I crave sour
squashed between mayo on white,
or with peanut butter
instead of jelly

the family −
at work
or trig class
or the neighbor’s −
ideal moment to slip away,
buy a jar

one hundred degree
morning,
no sidewalk,
roadway gravel digs
into thin flip-flops

hatless,
parched,
a faint idea
of how many blocks,
where to turn left, right

fear
rattlers,
strangers
who like ten year olds

back home,
grapple with the stubborn jar lid,
gulp Tía’s Fresca






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