By Eric Odynocki

in each sliver of mango seco coated

in chile powder, the red of capsaicin crystals

deep as the brick of the abuelos’ house.

One-story. Flat roof. How they sold dulces

to the kids del barrio from an alcove by the front door.

My tía Magda said before the brick, the walls were adobe,

how the dry clay wafted sweet in the Mexicali heat.

Back then, they slept on the roof

during those noches sofocantes, each sister taking

bleary-eyed shifts to fan the other silhouettes sprawled

beneath desert constellations, chests rising

and falling in ritmo with each oscillation.

~~~

Eric Odynocki (MFA Stony Brook Southampton 2025) is a first-generation American writer with Mexican, Ukrainian, and Ashkenazi roots. His work has appeared in Plume Poetry, Consequence, American Literary Review, and elsewhere. When not writing, Eric teaches Spanish and Italian in a high school in New York.