His body wrapped in folds of black exhaust,
my father fumbles with a wrench, his head
is lost inside a pick-ups propped up hood.
I hear him curse the Texas heat. I laugh,
and tap his sun burnt shoulder, offer him
a bowl of melting ice cream. Caramel?
he asks, and grabs it with grease-stippled hands.
Dulce de leche, words slide off my tongue.
He asks me where I learned to talk like that.
Behind this truck, a boy with soft dark hands,
smooth tongue like caramel. But I don’t say,
just shrug, breath in the heavy smell of fumes,
with melting ice cream sticky on my hands.
Originally published in Third Wednesday Journal