Soon you won't have to remember—how your children
Left off from the movie theatre of your
Umbilical cord—while you were still alive
Knowing nothing of me,
As I sold fireworks for my father across the unbusied
Deserts we stole from your
Father's country: already pregnant, you took a bus
To this sweltering peninsula—maybe you
Love with somebody else—then you fell in love
For a little while with me,
But always found your way back to him—that bit of
Mexico transplanted in America I had already stolen away
From you.
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