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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