It felt like we were choosing the children themselves, as though the quality of illustrations and story would certainly affect their burgeoning development. Choose Green Eggs instead of Cloudy Meatballs, and our children might speak in contrived sing-song rhymes, instead
Pink combs, red nail polish, the smell of fabric softener. I sat there on a white lounge chair, combing through my mother’s hair, as she sat at my feet on the deck below me. She was dozing off; her head
Hay muchos recuerdos que tenemos de nuestra niñez; mi primera memoria es de una mano gentil y cariñosa pero aun dura y “callosienta,” la mano lentamente me acariciaba al dormir. Entre las caricias de amor y de ternura sentí un
A pile of leaves blew into the street. An elderly lady stepped off the curb and swept them into another pile. A car passed, swerving towards the center of the road, so as not to hit her. She continued sweeping.
The clouds capture rays From the sunset haze; They begin to clear As night draws near. The sun reflects its light Onto the moon, and into the night. The stars they twinkle As they part to be single. I see
[one_half][/one_half] our history has been caught for a moment and maybe a lifetime in the perils of the sea it has been left for the sharks to devour it all that we contain in one blood stained battle of thrashing
[one_half]The other night, while being driven home by my father I saw a mountain of a woman Crying on the curb of a gas station She had on her favorite fluorescent pink wind-shorts And her hair was up in rollers
I want to feel The way that words describe feeling Laced throughout the books, In nothing but mimic. Yet the numbed pathos Of childhood and the peopled chains Hold me to a solid cynicism Capable only of incapability. Because