Ana María Carbonell
El Laguito
I walk down the dirt road
to a shortcut through a few pines
that once felt like forest
follow the path to granite rocks
marbled with white stripes
like the skirt steaks we always ate
because they were so cheap,
to the small beach at the edge
of our laguito where I learned
to swim, the fishy beach where I’d bring
buckets and nets to catch minnows
who’d nip if I didn’t keep moving
sometimes they’d bite my mother too
when she floated between
breaststroke or the crawl
sun on her face, her white
bathing cap, my buoy. Years later
we’d sit near the skirt-steak rocks
sip yerba mate, eat bizcochos,
the afternoon still except for heft
of summer heat, mosquito buzz,
chirps from a cardinal or bluebird. Once,
she looked out at the water, a large mirror,
and asked, How can a place hold so much
yet in another time—years later—
wash us away? Others will take our place.
Now my mother doesn’t swim, feel sun
on her face, nips from minnows; she can’t
smell a summer’s day, hear mosquitos
or birds. But I stand on the sand
sweet smell of her warm skin
with me, look into our laguito—birches
maples, oaks along the edge, its leafy frame.
Ana María Carbonell writes and teaches in the Bay Area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The MacGuffin, Artemis Journal, The Acentos Review, Wild Crone Wisdom, and elsewhere. It was also a finalist in the Tucson Festival of Books’ literary contest. Ana María is the proud mamma of two adult sons and lives in Berkeley with her rescue pup and musician husband.