E. García-López
My Nombres
I prayed anoche to hear, once again, my stolen namesIgbo or Yoruba, maybe Guanche, and Boriken. Light unveiled a frail whisper. (DiaI gather sins and atonements that fall like night lluvia in OtoñoI bring sonrisas and scars imperfectly lashed to the formidable wrinkles of mi caraI have the piel as rings in a tree, another condition of time that dice I was hereI confess lies to the azucenas my mother buys every Sunday and puts in the clay vase shaped by the hands of my esposa-
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