ERIN CONWAY

When I first returned from Peace Corps, I bought this pair of tennis shoes with this bright pink. Uncharacteristic of me really. Peace Corps wasn’t the end of my time in Guatemala, and those shoes returned with me, walked its stones, gravel and pavement. Those shoes walked my dog, Solo. For a time, piece by piece, their treads picked up the trail. I told myself Bones would be a good name for a dog, after the forensic anthropologist. Her team makes sense of memory through

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Dirt ground into palms. Ink spilled. Their blackness leaves a similar mark. Still, words and seeds share a cycle. Middles. Ends. ...