The last passenger pigeon cooed without end
in a language that no one could understand with an accent like the wrinkles on the palm of your hand when it stopped, the silence said "never again." My tíoabuelo died not knowing his name leaving papi the only one left of fourteen his homeland across ocean and mountain and dream the blessing and curse that he packed up and came. Your heart is a muscle the size of your fist that can conquer anything but distance that can only strain against sinew to cross the expanse the space between what is and what might could exist. Comments are closed.
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Meesh Montoya
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