by Emma Atkinson
Era solo una niña en los brazos del sol,
mi sol, who carried me, laughing, through the doorway
of the tumultuous rooms of my father’s mind.
The rain fell through the ceiling, and I laughed as I danced
in the shade of the guayaba trees; I walked
on the back of an alligator, whose scales were red tiles,
hands kissing the floor, besos y pesos,
to make way for the litany of flowers that tumbled
from my mother’s outstretched arms,
ten sets of small white feet making the floor ring,
their smiles stretched wide as the clouds
that painted our infinitely blue sky.
Concordia, does it not sound like laughter?