Cheekbone, Arizona
is one of the seven capitals of Arizona,
according to my father. In Cheekbone
children play on in their agreeable way,
collecting their salt drips for the Sweat Lake
they cannonball into. In Cheekbone
my father and I almost got sliced
in two by a low-flying airplane. I was
not scared on account of the flashing
neon billboard reading DO NOT BE AFRAID.
Back in Florida I sit cross-legged on the patio
and braid the blades of the palm frond in my
tepid hands. I am practicing for my
future girl child, whose adolescent ugliness
must be masked as much as possible.
Do not be afraid to say that children can be ugly.
They can slap you, force you to eat a spoonful
of chili powder for a crime you never committed.
I have spent many a thunderous night alone.
Such things do not occur in Cheekbone.
In Cheekbone the people sit on lawn chairs
by themselves, bothering no one. They do not
let wish coins suffocate their fountains.
They are content in this way.
CAROLENE KURIEN is a Malayali-American poet from South Florida and a 2024 MacDowell Fellow. A Tin House alum, her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Passages North, Salt Hill, Redivider, Bennington Review, BOOTH, Bellevue Literary Review, and elsewhere. You can view her work at carolenekurien.com.
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