Posts By: Hannah Thompson

The small-town grocery store my mother
and I shop at has more pine trees around it
than cars in its parking lot. Inside,
the speckled linoleum floor is marred

with the imprints of locally bought boots—
it’s been years since someone from headquarters
has gone out of their way to make
renovations in these parts. The deli counter

sports the fingerprints of people
who press the glass too hard when pointing
at the ham they want. My mother, wanting
to practice her English with the workers,

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In my father’s study, on the highest floor,
the morning light crashes against the windows.
He walks up there in red plaid slippers.

When he moves in his chair, the pneumatic pump
squeaks all the way down to the basement,
along with the taca taca taca of his keyboard.

His fingers strike the buttons so quickly
my mother calls it ametralladora
literaria. His hands loaded with letters,

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