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Chata

when was it 
the Tecolote felt 
your feet clicking 
like castanets on its hardwood floor 

was it yesterday 
when the child 
with laughing eyes 
spoke with her hands 
and no one understood 

maybe now 
with sunlight nestled 
in your hair 
and moonlight locked 
behind your eyelids 

tomorrow I may curse 
the grey clouds 
the cold that bites 
my neck 
memories that hang 
around like shadows 

today I plead 
for a shower of sunlight 
to see Chata smile 
and hear a woman’s voice 
call out . . . .son

--Henry G., Adult