They talk in Spanish over our heads

Upwind factory churns burnt and sweet—we always want cookies, especially in the summer when the windows are open and we’re lazy withheat. Mama gathers me up to read poem after poem for her homework. They talk in Spanish over our heads. Cousin Marcia says ax instead of ask but I’m not allowed to. Summer marked by the garden, the sun marveling us, this itchy wanting, for cookies, for our skin to burst us into glitter. She had horses who danced in her mother’s arms. / She had horses who thought they were the sun and their / bodies shone and burned like stars. I sneak into the kitchen to scale the countertop for sweets tin-sealed on the fridge. She yells Don’t touch the oven. —It ain’t even on. —Isn’t.