1923

by Claudia Acevedo

he sits on a piece of wood
cracked as toenails
protruding, yellow glances of the Depression still in his cup,
which reeked of cranberries and vodka.
when I woke on Monday morning
his hands were copper and full
with grapefruits and melons he bought from his friend the domino player
and the Oldsmobile would ride proudly, coughing,
to school with me pressed and clad in blue polyester.
the hand wave sneaking through the car window
said so much about the brown in my eyes
and the sunflowers that grew in his garden.

Claudia Acevedo was born in Puerto Rico. She moved to New York in 2006 because she’s a masochist. Acevedo now lives in Astoria with her two goldfish, interns at a literary agency, proofreads the fiction section of The Brooklyn Rail, and transcribes interviews done by people further in their careers. She needs a real job, so send her an email at caclaudiaacevedo@gmail.com.