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,

porcelana, campanas

their smiles stretched wide as the clouds

that painted our infinitely blue sky.


Concordia, does it not sound like laughter?

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