Ode to the New York Heat Wave
My family discovered each other in a house during a heat wave. The five of us, on the bare floor, trying not to touch each other, breathe too loud, and inching closer to the window. My sister is the youngest and won’t stop crying. She asks if we’re poor now, if she has to go get a job. We laugh, congratulate her for being able to see the bigger picture. At night, my dad orders buffalo chicken pies, vodka pies, a classic pepperoni, and as many cold 2 liters of Coke we want, keeping our mouths full and quiet. We speak again as we determine the bathroom order like strangers having met for the first time seeing each other differently every morning.
Bowl of Fat
She rattles the oxtails in the milky yellow soup with a wooden spoon. The humid garage fills with a smothering of garlic, pepper, and gasoline. The portable gas burner wobbles every time she stirs. With steady hands, she skims off the yellow fat from the surface and dumps it into a bone white rice bowl. She calls for me once she is finished. Before I carry this brimming offering inside, ask why she bothers to skim the fat when it takes so long. She says it’s healthier this way and asks if I want this yellow gunk inside my body. Before I can answer, she snaps for me to close the door quickly to not waste the cold air inside, for me to go straight to the bathroom and wash my feet because the floors are clean— she is barefoot.
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