By Lucia Llano
the places in the wet, forest dirt where our little
fingers once dug knuckle-deep in search for the
purple, swollen rubber of odd creatures, are still
standing, the same throbbing earthworms are
there even now, crawling and slurring through
the wet dirt and now unbothered by our tiny
fingers, spend their time instead planting
soft little kisses all the way down the sleeping
carcass of our old childhood dog.
Hothouse 