Ernesto Trejo

August

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When the sister
of your mother
woke up and blessed the day
with her one eye,
when all the pigeons
in the block
prayed in her fever,
when her toes curled
the next day
and her lamp winked,
you were there.
A child,
you took yourself
by the hand
through everything.
This was August,
and a year later
it all came back,
the terror, when you saw
your one friend in the rain,
the mud on his cowboy boots,
also dead. You took
yourself by the hand.
You lied
to your bicycle, the lawn
on which you played was water.
There, the eggs could hold
whales, winged horsed,
firemen in shiny suits
that might burn like ants.
Bored,
you went in the house
and pulled the feathers
from your hat
one by one,
gave them each a name
and commanded them to sing
into the space
that once held
one of your teeth.

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