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Issue 16, Poesía | August 2015


The Passing Breeze

The question had come from an audience member whose orange nails reminded her of 
the carvalho, fruto e tanino of the Portuguese heritage she left behind. There was a man 
who once told her your eyes are no longer yours. And for a long time she believed him
because he looked like someone’s father. Every week, she writes her lessons thinking 
about the men she loved, and can no longer find. They are lectures about love. When
she stands at the lectern holding the paper at the beginning of class, her words escape to
fields of soy and brown rice, a soft purple cardamom inside a child’s hand.
The Passing Breeze