Poetry No. 51 – JP Infante

Yasica, Puerto Plata 1. When I lived in the mountains, I thought the same color meant the same taste. Tangerines, oranges and the sun. Citrus. When I saw my great-grandmother peel a tangerine with her bare hands while men used knives for oranges, she became God. I imagined what she could do with the sun. […]

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