R. Elena Prieto and Laura Esther Wolfson

Grandparents’ House, Venezuela
R. Elena Prieto

I remember the slow juicing
of oranges, her turning wrist,
blue and white napkins with birds
on the table. Pájaros still sounds
like flight to me, the pulse of air
snapping beneath scarlet and green wings,
nectarized bird song. Pio pios
in the chicken yard. My early
memories are hothouse flashes of color
glazed with the musk of warm rain,
tortoises and their slow crawl
in the backyard. Every morning
fresh orange juice, every afternoon
a push on the swing, a nap in a small bed
that blanketed me with dusty
breaths of cedar, lavender.


He Picked Me Up; Then He Picked Me Up Again
Laura Esther Wolfson

I had set aside that weekend for a one-night stand. I would be done with my grueling, six-week French course at McGill. It would be my last weekend in Montreal before going back to life in New York. I had been unable to meet anyone unless I was out of town. This would be my last opportunity for a while. more