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my father's letter
hope maxwell snyder
we find it in the post office box downtown. in a short skirt, refusing to bend,
my mother hands me the key.
on my knees, i study the light blue envelope bordered in red-and-blue stripes,
stamped with american words, messy handwriting.
at the gold museum across the street, people stand in line.
for twenty pesos they walk into a dark room
and wait for light to shine on masks, decanters, 24-karat 1, rafts
retelling the story of el dorado,
gold forgotten in forgotten trunks meant for malaga. in front of the museum,
leaves shivering on trees announce 2 storms.
food 3 sell hot dogs and empanadas. my mother tears the envelope.
his letter, as brief as a butterfly's hours,
4 with words i don't understand. the sheet of onionskin trembles
in my mother's hands. she reads in silence, in a hurry
before taking 5 from her purse, a mirror, and painting
her lips red. then, she tears the letter up.
in silence, without stopping to catch our breath,
we wait for the bus.
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