I am from worn out books,

From Goya and lost disc tapes.

From the park we call Inwood

(Green trees and plants to hide your secrets and crimes,

where you have no choice but to let

the smell of pine engulf your nose).

I am from the neighbor’s dog,

whose broken back legs remind me of home.

I am from heavy cologne and lost albums.

I’m from my mother Angela and my father who never shows.

I am from the noisy night owls and the lying tongues.

I’m from “Callate!” and “It’s gonna be fine”.

I’m from “Let’s pray to God” and “Who’s that?”.

I’m from Sherman and Santo Domingo.

From the badge my Grandmother earned

and her shattered angel statue.

In my room there is a bookshelf with hidden pictures of

my father and mother, a lost family album,

with lost memories that can never be salvaged.

A family from New York to Santo Domingo,

With dreams of exploration and discovery,

we’re all apples who didn’t fall far from the tree.




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