“I’m Goose,” the boy says, extending his hand. He smiles, flashing a mouth full of silver braces and saliva-coated rubber bands. He has little eyes and big glasses and a terrible buzz cut that looks as though he did it himself.
I take his hand and try to grip it hard. Goldie has always told me that I have a weak handshake. “I’m Princess,” I tell him.
“Princess,” he repeats. His voice falters, as though he’s unaccustomed to the depth of its pitch. He clears his throat. “Cool.”
I shrug. It’s just my …

There is a place
In New Mexico
Where small children dance like starfish
And my mother swims alone in the oasis at night.
Here, she remembers the desert.
She slept on the floor
Of pueblo ruins
Among siblings and desert winds,
Warm beneath the silver blanket
Of her grandmother’s hair.
When she was nine,
The Oldest of All the Cousins
Tied feathers in her hair
So she could fly away, if she got scared
When their grandfather’s coyote howled at night.
This is the place
Where aunts became sisters again
And painted their lips with rose colored earth
To leave kisses on the foreheads of husbands
Who wore them …