I find her on the floor of her room, quiet. I don’t know what part of the night she is gathering. From above, she says, mama, from a satellite we can see the blood on the prison grounds. My mind uncrosses its wooden arms. What do you mean, baby? I’m listening. No one leaves the prison, but they keep making more room. She hesitates. It’s a death camp. Her face looks the way it did when she was a baby. The red stain keeps getting bigger on the concrete. It’s spring. My daughter is sixteen. My country is disappearing our neighbors. Mama, do you know the market that closed? They were so nice when I got gum and empanadas.
Laura Cronk is the author of GHOST HOUR and HAVING BEEN AN ACCOMPLICE from Persea Books. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review; Action, Spectacle; The Bennington Review; Iterant; Lit Hub; Poets & Writers Magazine and other publications. Originally from rural Indiana, she is poetry chair of the MFA in Creative Writing at The New School in New York City.