Planting for Harvest
My dad has my name tattooed on his arm
by a butterfly, a spider, and a scar—
algo de cuando yo era un niño,
he says—his tan lines red, my name now
green, like ripening fruit—a soft mango,
a bandaged apple. We grow together.
He once was scared to hold me—said he would
crush me, drop me, bruise me—his arms too strong.
We brush shoulders. We sit on opposite ends
of the couch—he asks, ¿qué quieres ver?
I’m fine, I always say, with anything—
About Alana Rodriguez
Alana Rodriguez is an MFA Poetry student from Chula Vista, CA. She’s a submissions reader for Poetry International and a recipient of the Sarah B. Marsh-Rebelo Scholarship for Poetry. Find her work in Unfortunately, Lit, Boats Against the Current, and the San Diego Poetry Annual.
Planting for Harvest
My dad has my name tattooed on his arm
by a butterfly, a spider, and a scar—
algo de cuando yo era un niño,
he says—his tan lines red, my name now
green, like ripening fruit—a soft mango,
a bandaged apple. We grow together.
He once was scared to hold me—said he would
crush me, drop me, bruise me—his arms too strong.
We brush shoulders. We sit on opposite ends
of the couch—he asks, ¿qué quieres ver?
I’m fine, I always say, with anything—
Planting for Harvest
My dad has my name tattooed on his arm
by a butterfly, a spider, and a scar—
algo de cuando yo era un niño,
he says—his tan lines red, my name now
green, like ripening fruit—a soft mango,
a bandaged apple. We grow together.
He once was scared to hold me—said he would
crush me, drop me, bruise me—his arms too strong.
We brush shoulders. We sit on opposite ends
of the couch—he asks, ¿qué quieres ver?
I’m fine, I always say, with anything—
About Alana Rodriguez
Alana Rodriguez is an MFA Poetry student from Chula Vista, CA. She’s a submissions reader for Poetry International and a recipient of the Sarah B. Marsh-Rebelo Scholarship for Poetry. Find her work in Unfortunately, Lit, Boats Against the Current, and the San Diego Poetry Annual.
