Brian Eugenio Herrera
and M.G. Switalski

Brian Eugenio Herrera

Thumbnail Perspective (Colcha Embroidery)


M.G. Switalski



I wish you could take me to the ocean.
Her head is on my lap, my fingers knotting up her hair.
Her nail polish is chipped from where she bites her nails.
It reminds me of my Dad’s old Chevy,
The summer I spent with him trying to save her.
I was seventeen and aching for the county line.
Endless days of shirtlessness and sunburn,
Sweat dripping off my nose into the carburetor.
The Oklahoma sun felt extra hot that year,
And goddamn the musical, there was no wind.
Just the sound of the ratchet wrench
Reverberating through stagnant air.
Eventually we had to give up.
The truck spent that fall and well into the winter
Rusting away on cinderblocks in the backyard.
Its paint withered and peeled, slivers falling to join leaves congregating on the ground
Until the red chips are the only specks of color
In a sea of rotten brown.
The ocean is where everything comes from, where everything is born.
Her eyes are puffy.