Poetry

San Antonio Mary Makofske

San Antonio   The house seemed woven, like a shirt, inside and outside seamless, white. Arched doorways, rooms of light.   Hacienda, my father said, but Aunt Bea’s house was small for such a spreading word.   Kumquat, she called me, and Sweet Pea. I’ll make you a Black Cow, she said. I didn’t want to be.   She laughed and mixed me up a sea of root beer with an island of ice cream. Her right hand   caught my eye. The index finger was a notch too short. I’ll rub your back, she offered. I lay still  …

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