Christian Baldomero
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It is snowing in your country
I am looking out the bus window playing River by Joni Mitchell. It is snowing there, you sent me pictures of cobblestoned streets, of you and your lover, four degrees cold, you say. Meanwhile the trees are green as ever here in my country. The children chase the chickens and the sun trails off behind…
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There is a boy in the island
The boy tells you what white is in his native tongue—puti, like sand, like your skin, like the cobblestoned boulevards you have back home. You tell him there’s something about this island. You do not know what it is exactly, but you tell him it’s like home. He says this is home. You are riding…