My name is the Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings.

Windows so small you'd think they were holding their breath.

It's as if he let go a million moths all over the dusty furniture.

My papa's hair is like a broom.

My mother's hair...is the warm smell of bread before you bake it.

The mother's feet, plump and polite, descended...

Two girls raggedy as rats live across the street.

I am in love with those two green apples you call eyes.

Until then I am a red balloon, a balloon tied to an anchor.

Maybe the sky didn't look the day she fell down

There are clouds that look like big field of sheep

...the moan of the wooden door as it opens

The trees are the only ones who understand me

...to where a room is waiting for you

She is too many light-years away.

Not the shy ice cream bells' giggle of Rachel and Lucy's family

there are a million zillion kinds

Her house is like cat heaven.

Our house with its feet tucked under like a cat.

the day Angel Vargas learned to fly and dropped from the sky like a sugar donut

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