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Much like the moon to the earth. Gravity to an object… it is time We share from deaths end, from birth, From incubation, to seed and vessel… time.   Time etched in skin as scars, lines, cratered
My best friend doesn’t know who she is anymore She is a coyota Culturally stretched beyond the limits of a black and white definition She straddles the border outlined by the Rio Grande Mezclera
  I am steaming tamales and stirring two cans of refried beans on the stove with a metal spoon I probably shouldn’t be using, this is a nonstick saucepan after all, but you are in the hospital right now
Somebody once asked me, “What’s it like being black in New Mexico?” Well it’s no field trip that’s for sure. I told them it’s like being on a vacation that’s lasted too long. Like being a old car in a new car lot.
Our bodies the same, alien to us both. Their neatly planted garden I trampled with my feet. She locked me in a closet, the bitch. Fat black cat, emerald eyes that burned through my window.
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