Every day after classes
we pick up Sonia from La Facultad.

That first year when she thought herself a doctor
and tried to help El Pedigueno with a stick through his hand.

She swore it was her calling, that her parent’s voices
were the breath above the store’s awning telling her to do it.

She fainted after seeing maggots swim
inside the purple ring of his sore.

Her description, exactly.

She held on to her promise for a few years,
to study the body as a curriculum.

“The body omits nothing” she’d say.

Nights, we sat in the park after
classes, she quizzed equally

the names of illnesses and men in her classes.

The nights expanded from parks
to soda bars, to socials later on,

sweating after dancing to a good
salsa band.

All had music in it!

Sound lifting like bridges around town,
and vessel after vessel of rugged narrative

passed through our bodies.

Skin taking on the color of rust
as blood rose to the epidermis

and diluted itself in our potion of baby oil and cinnamon.

Our bodies then:
straight backs
long necks
pert bosoms

Our hair then:
black, adamant

Our eyes then:

Silvia Bonilla
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