Home lies in the wrinkles on the corner of my father’s eyes, In the tremor and resonance of his quaking belly in response to his own jokes. It shines and captivates through my mother’s smile, Protests in the deep caramel tone of her arms that nursed me. Minutes and hours of commodified work, Entire revolutions…
by Fernando Rojas There are giants that walk across the desert Prickly pear gods. Names spelt in grains of sand Like water, they’ve returned to the place They always belonged. These giants had babies Bigass babies tattooed with anchors and compasses. One part kept grounded One part moving North. These babies knew better than most…