they assigned too many numbers to my house. they stacked us and, while pursing lips/slight head nod, said: 29, 30, 31. i knew here like birthday piñatas with honduran cipotes, their tenant parents wanna leave but not without taking some money. i knew here to sit on my tía’s couch, wound in plastic wrap. The stranger Man who wears only a towel nods ‘buenas’ at me as if i sit behind a counter. sanctified love!!!!!! is what i thought this must be. el cariño de mis tios for humanity always has room to provide. everyone is family at the church, even if mami don’t think so. everyone is family and this house has the six — and only six, members of my family. forever here we are stuck. in a house broken into apartments 29, 30, 31.

...

Brianny had one number for a house with two floors. i counted on my fingers each time i left: there's tiny brianny, the BIG brother, the brother with down syndrome sleeping on the living room cot, and the brother who went to school with alex newell. theres also her older sister with a dominican name ending in -lys. the other one moved out — she lives near me now. her grandma, her grandpa, her aunt, her mom. obama deported her dad a few years ago. i always count her dog cobie, and the bird. eleven souls in the house assigned one number. maybe if Brianny lived in my house it would be even. i would want cobie to come too.