Wanderlust by Miguel A. Vega For Jackie Mendoza If, even now, I am excited about it: every cow & horse, every canoe on the surface of Pyramid Lake— If, at two hundred miles out, I take a selfie with the Bravoland cowboy, record us driving by the Tule Elk Reserve, record two jet-black crows circling the morning’s blue wrist of light like a scrunchie, then, I can only imagine your excitement three years back: the eldest daughter leaving home; Southern California, a solid white line in the rearview mirror. Today, I’m a regular Sal Paradise—a spider, a rickety bar, a softball game beneath floodlights. Tell me: what did it take for your Amá to let go? To type Chico State into Google Maps? Did she see those blue lines as umbilical cords? Did she feel a blue road being pulled out from deep within her body? I think of my Amá; wish my America larger than Lillian Street. Larger than Don Jones Park, than its bougainvillea. When you left, did yours look up at the sky? Imagine the return trip home without her daughter? O tell me: how did you hide your excitement at grapes? How did you get those dimples on your face to look less like car tires, skidding?
First published in Poetry (January/February 2025).
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