Faith Gómez Clark

FLASHBACK
El Paso, Texas

It always begins with the scent of mothballs and frijoles
and I hear my stomach start to whimper

like the desert a year without rain. Everything is clear.
It always is at first. My uncles dog Fecha

barking in the backyard, her fur a brown wire fence,
shaking. From the kitchen: the sizzle and pop of huevos

in the frying pan. And I’m in my uncle’s room
which is no longer a room, but a prayer that will go

unanswered. Suddenly, I see everything
as if peering through the murky waters of the Rio Grande.

My body is no longer my body
but an unwrapped Marzipan.

Before me, the open jaws of the camera

snapping snapping snapping