Directions to My House
I never hated the trees, to be clear. Just the way
they reminded me of my father and the neighborhood
boys who spoke Spanish. It happened every summer,
their talking to him as they worked in the yard. I would
go out on my bike and find a friend to ride with me up
the biggest hill, stop at the top for a second, look across
town for my house, then rush down. My mother said
those boys needed the money. After my parents sold
the house, someone put patio furniture on the lawn. My father
would’ve never allowed that. I know that. I tell myself not to
be mad anymore. They needed the money. Still, the trees
agitate the sky. After a day’s work, my father liked staring out
the window at his yard. I still imagine it. Look. I’m pretending
to watch TV; he turns to tell me what he needs.
The Awakening by Rudra Kishore Mandal
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Michael Torres was born and brought up in Pomona, California, where he spent his adolescence as a graffiti artist. His debut collection of poems, An Incomplete List of Names (Beacon Press, 2020), was selected by Raquel Salas Rivera for the National Poetry Series and named one of NPR’s Books We Love 2020. Currently he’s an Associate Professor in the MFA program at Minnesota State University, Mankato, and a teaching artist with the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop. Visit him at: michaeltorreswriter.com