In San Pacho, my mother holds my hand.
They shoot a man.
We’re walking from our grocery
“La Familiar” when
a fledgling
baby
bird
of a man
fumbles in flight towards us.
His wing-mouth widens.
He dawns on us.
we pale transparent,
see-through as the air
he launches for and
falls.
At my feet. I’m the one my
mother picks up from the ground.
She shuttered. This story is a
Snapshot from her mind.
When she tells it, as though not to
me, she asks:
“I always wonder if she remembers.”
Watch:
memory, a pebble launched
from the Y of my slingshot.
