between behemoth granite shafts, shove my body by their force, leave me roadside and wandering fields. Little is funny when you’re Chicana and walking a Civil War site not meant for walking. Regardless, I ask park rangers and guides for stories on Mexican soldiers, receive shrugs. No evidence in statues or statistics. In the cemetery, not one Spanish name. I’m alone in the wine shop. It’s the same in the post office, the market, the antique shop with KKK books on display. In the peach orchard, I prepare a séance, sit cross-legged in grass, and hold