Not vinegar. Not acid. Not sugarcane pressed to mortar by fist, but salt: salt, the home taste; salt, the tide; salt, the blood. Not Holy Ghost, but a saint of coral come to life in the night crossing a field of brambles and thorns, the camps of pirates beat back to the bay with hornets. Not Santo Niño. And not a belt of storms, but this: girls singing, an avocado in each open palm, courting doves; a moth drawn to the light of our room you take to be your father. Copyright © 2014 by R. A. Villanueva. Used with permission of the author. |
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