by Esteban Rodríguez
At least inside it was always December, a reliable winter unfurling from the lumps of ice clumped with a history of erupted sodas along the freezer walls. I rested my chin between the broken stacks of ice trays and the Ziploc bags stuffed with frostbitten meat I meant to cook, but never did. I turned and placed my cheek on the freezer bed, so glad to be home, and as that cool darkness began to numb my skin, I almost forgot the rabid sunlight Ana and I endured at la pulga all afternoon. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 