When a man like Silvestre Revueltas goes back into the ground at last, there is a rumor, a wave’s voice and a cry that makes ready and makes known his departure.
I am going to write in praise of the small. Not the miniature, which is an inverse of the monumental and thus, in its own way, monumental.
I felt no fear, though my legs were thin, hardly bigger than the barrel of the gun, and my arms were strained. I felt no fear at the prospect of shooting this man, of watching his body crumple, then dragging the corpse inside, quickly so the heat didn’t escape from the house.
And the girls are always smiling, their shoulders
encased in graduation black
or bared down to the peeled-back petals of the
Everything the old woman said was true.
Then she suffered a heart attack and died in Ruth’s arms.