We drove high
into the jungle
A café spread
over the grounds of an old hacienda
Clay oven under
a brick and palm-frond shelter with the scent of maize escaping into the mist
We sipped
sweet sticky drinks, fanned ourselves uselessly
You told me
about the child, never born, and you wept for a girl whose name you could
barely remember
A huge
butterfly, the size and color of a paper napkin, floated by and another and
another
Like thoughts
spiraling over our heads
Words unspoken
Floating in
the path of memories
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