The Hammock 

Speckles of light through the hammock
I’ve curled in, the weight of me just 
another heaviness leaning toward the earth. 

The dogs’ wet mouths bounce against 
my hip and I scowl into a black-and-white 
photobook of sad families, thinking: I just 
want to be content, once. When the drizzle 

first leaves its evidence, tapping at 
my fingernails, new socks, damp spots 
dark like some hypothetical tick to tweeze,
I carry that hammock in with me
swung over my shoulder like a big man

and stall at the glass from the dryer side
while S and her purple garden boots stand 
still, pause on culling not-spring weeds
until the sun comes on and all over again:

speckles of light through the hammock
I’ve curled in, the weight of me just 
another heaviness leaning toward the earth.

GABRIELLA GARCIA

Gabriella Garcia is a writer raised in the Sonoran Desert and lives in the Pacific Northwest. In her writing, she seeks to uplift the beauty and politics of everyday life. You can find her poetry in Rust & Moth and The Seventh Wave’s “Well-Crafted” Bulletin.