I watch from the pool
as fire ants wander
up and down their mounds.

Apa sits inside, blank
in front of the black
television, cerveza sweating
in his hand. His rocking chair
creaks as he gets up and walks
to the fridge for another beer.

He waves at me through
the kitchen window. I wave
back. His son, my Uncle
Aniceto, died
diving into shallow

waters, skull smashed
on a rock. I eat salted fruit in Texas
and imagine ghosts
like chocolate,
darkly melting in the heat.

– Angelica Esquivel