Updated: Jul 18, 2019
grandma had a way of kissing you
on the temple; her Revlon lipstick
an oración for all the spiderwebs
there. every time you wiped
your eyes, the arañacita of water
would crawl across your cheek.
you could taste the bitter salt.
the lemon juice from your hair
trailing down your face as though
the sun is butter. the sun is butter,
you tell everyone as the Florida sky
melts & bruises. you and your little sister
hold your breath every time
you pass a cemetery. the school bus
growing quiet as the tombstones
you’re unfamiliar with reveal
your namesake. you don’t know
how to tell your mom that you saw
how you died that day – the driver
walking towards you like an apparition
in a desert. hands in his pockets,
whistling boleros, as he explains
the bus is in a ditch and the ditch
is on fire.
Taylor Gianfrancisco is an aspiring writer/poet who lives in Orlando, Florida. She works as an editorial assistant at the literary magazines, JuxtaProse and Helen. Follow her eccentricities and adventures on Twitter at @moondaughterxii and on Instagram at @tayleurmarie.