print previewback JACQUELINE BALDERRAMA
Somewhere Else in Texas
A woman in the back of the exchange shop sands a chair while bayou grass blows in.
There are birdcages; balance-beam scales; fur coats;
pointy, reptile shoes; rings plugged into boxes of dried peas.
To the woman, many of these things are meant to look old, so many are.
Somewhere else in Texas, a father is cleaning out his daughter’s car,
and it’s a mess, beautiful, of silver wrappers, hairbands, emptied yogurt bowls.
He takes it all and puts it into the bin.
He gathers loose coins, rings, two handbags, takes them inside.
Her apartment is stale—dirty dishes, bras hung over chairs.
He finds a list of “Things I Want” and holds on to it—
pass O-Chem, boyfriend, new friends, lose weight.
Her rescued stray cats that have been hiding in the back room come out—
the three fates, he thinks, accountable for this. 
Accountability for Your Blind Sheep
Somewhere Else in Texas