Ray Gonzalez


Everything was the apple and the glass of tea.
The mountain, the mold, the apron on the grandmother—
the neck of a brown baby holding its tiny head
to get rid of the black bees.
This is the end of a bad century,
the opening of a door that was never built into the chest.

A volume of loud wires coming out of the ground.
My grandfather rising from fifty-four years of death to see me.

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