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


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