Stomping Grounds
Laura Zapico

This is the park where I smoked my first
cigarette,
joint,
sherm stick.
The eucalyptus trees brushing the picnic tables,
shedding seeds like buttons.

And here is the curb where I drank my first bottle of
Mickey’s,
Cisco,
Night Train,
and fell into a puddle of
oil and spit,
stars spinning counter-clockwise in the sky.

And this is the spot where I sat in an
Impala,
Cutlass,
Coupe de Ville,
with girls in creased pants
and eyes lined like cats.

And here is the bathroom where my
homegirl Renata
choked to death on her own vomit,
and I reached in to pull out the chunks
like a surprise from a grab bag
at the county fair.