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 sit in the ether
among the bones and sawdust
piecing the skulls together with sugar
and painter's tape
            believing in the solitude of  La Llorona
down the hall
awash with the festoons
f the grave
            yellow and green and red
            and bones
Frida beckons me, “Why do you hate me, Miguel!?”
she cries soft and mocking
“...Come, fix my hands, mi hijo...”
I connect the bones, the frame
a work of fingers appearing, flexing
she drags the tip of her pointer
my nose
like a blade
and kisses me quietly
            “Bueno,” she says
among the army of marching skulls
and decay

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