To the Unborn Sibling

Benjamin Garcia

 

Small and angry towns pock this section of HWY 287 that skewers clear across the fat gut of Texas, and our father won’t stop for anything but gas. No armadillo is safe. The one time we did stop for food, the owner refused us, even though we could translate the orders. So if you don’t want to piss in a can or you lack that equipment or you think the metal mouth of the can will bite, hold it until we stop for gas. Because our oldest brother, caught off guard by a bump in the road, perhaps a pot hole or unlucky creature, cut himself you-know-where. That’s why we call him Castrati. And boy, do nicknames stick. Our other brother: Wetpants. Take it from me, no matter how many changes of clothes, he will never dry. And as for me, I have been left behind before, and that’s all it takes to know what those little Texas flags mean, that white star.

 
 

Benjamin Garcia is a Community Health Specialist in Upstate New York. He had the honor of being the 2017 Latin@ Scholar at the Frost Place and 2018 CantoMundo Fellow at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lambda Literary, Acentos Review, Boston Review, Kenyon Review Online, and “Best New Poets 2016.”