There should be a name for the fog that rolls in
and stays for the winter months
a cold mist in the front lawns of the suburbs
an opaque film obscuring the freeway’s
overhead lights exit ramps and 18-wheelers
Trailer parks and dirt lots giving way to
shadows with leafy arms— the farms
the corporations that fill national supermarkets
Fields empty for the night but never a season
for the oranges and lemons and honey dew
and pears and grapes and more grapes
and potatoes with a smell that stains
You’re a child in the passenger side
holding onto tears and a stuffed animal
the change in elevation going unnoticed
until the mountains mighty and wondrous
envelope you from all sides
Georgie Contreras (she/her) is a Latine writer raised and residing in the Boston area. Her poetry has been published with The Ana, Loud Coffee Press, Querencia Press, and Rappahannock Review. Her work has received support from GrubStreet’s Boston Writers of Color and the Fine Arts Work Center. Whether she’s journaling or reading a book from the library, you’ll usually find an indie wrestling match from the mid-2000’s playing in the background.
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