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hoy los aplausos se confunden con las gotas de la lluvia

ISSUE:  Spring 2021


Swifts do not guard their time; they do not linger. When they come 
back from Africa, we are happy. I was told to go back to Africa. The sea, 
that stupid slate wedge, sparks with such beauty. I feel lonely. A car goes past,

blasting I get so lonely lonely lonely lonely yeah, and my fingers tap. Today, the 
applause gets confused with raindrops. The sun pulls soft tendrils of copper 
from the creamy stone. We shut ourselves up 
and trust the sea to stay put. I can’t go back to anywhere. I have phantom 

kicks in my belly. I am nursing, but it feels like I am ghosting. The sea 
waits, good slab of stone. 

Clapter clapter siren anthem—we resist, growing quiet as the neighbors swoop 
to their windows. Their balconies cheer. We shove thyme down into our silent soil. 

We have lived for too long in this beautiful city. The island rises in the distance and the 
castle leans over the city beach. What a brat I’ve been, not taking all this in on the daily. 
I should visit bliss
more often often often—I have lived too long in you.



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