by Luisa A. Igloria
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Little oases of language, assurances to console
the living: how the shell of the once familiar body
(dissolved in rain, into the sod),
is yet alive somewhere. Above the scrim of trees,
beyond our frugal line of sight. It goes on living,
the minister says, just as we
beyond our frugal line of sight. It goes on living,
the minister says, just as we