Flying

By GABRIELA YBARRA LEMMONS

our truck gathers speed as we approach the hills of el valle and for
a few seconds    i am in flight    we accelerate    embark the horizon’s
next hill    we brake    drive past algodón    pull to the side    of the
road    terremotos on perfectly spaced rows    i follow my father
plucks a boll     exposes white fibers in my palm    where clothes come
from    he says    fertile    is my father’s land

 


Gabriela Ybarra Lemmons was born and raised in South Texas, a stone’s throw from the Rio Grande. She was raised by migrant workers and earned her MFA in creative writing from the University of Kansas. She is currently a dual language teacher in Topeka, Kansas. 

[Purchase Issue 26 here.] 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Flying

Related Posts

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew.

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.

Headshot of Jill Pearlman

January 2026 Poetry Feature #1: U-topias

JILL PEARLMAN
One of us sleeping, one of us dreaming with open eyes / strands of your hair in the silver light / when I rubbed the hair in the small of your back, / you awoke to a dog’s sharp nails / You told me it wouldn’t have ended well / in the old country. // You smashing public windows, drunken brawls / in the metro