Lorena

The frame is white. Hairline
fractures creep up the sides
but when I skim my fingers over
the surface it’s smooth.
Like bone.

I am six and climbing
over the back of the loveseat
to get a better look.
She is seventeen, encased in glass
like Snow White, red mouth
and dark eyes.
Like mine.

The dress is wrong.
The dress is white.
Like a bride.
Like a ghost.

My grandmother hangs her in the living room
and I bend a Barbie’s knees and feel
eyes on the bridge of my spine.
I’ve always known the things
I’m not old enough to know

“Bryanna” is your mother too afraid to name you after her dead sister.

She slips her, instead, between
your first name/last name
like she’s tucking her under the covers,
lowering her into the dirt.

Bry Molina was born and raised in Los Angeles and maybe one day they will leave.