By Jessica Enriquez
There’s something nostalgic about braids,
braids on small girls’ heads look like
brown wheat heads under the dying
august sunlight when we pretended
to catch fireflies in plastic cups
and we heard the bells
of a paletero cart ding dong
like church bells down the street
and your father took out
his worn-out leather wallet
and we gathered around like tiny ants
all small girls with braids weaved
like grandmother’s rebozo
wrapped around her ribs, knotted
like pan de muerto on November
not fresh from the bakery
like the chocolate glazed donuts
we bought on Sundays from Krispy Kreme,
only pan de muerto tasted like home
like cempasúchil, orange, and sesame
like the hands of the dead must have smelled
in the cemetery
not at all like orange creamsicle push-pops
not artificial like mom said
our Spanish sounded
as she twisted strands of your copper
hair into braids
