Mama takes a breath for the doctor’s stethoscope pressing against her chest, a cold kiss moonshot point blank range. “Gentle now,” the doctor urges
Pray make me as commanding—in a yolk-gold gown cinched at the waist, turbaned hat, cigar mouthed like Che Guevara. Ochún, Santera de Los Rios—
With bare hands and green thumbs, the wet earth succulent and breakable making the palms soft, making it transparent—No, opaque, a quality seen through,