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47 | Ode to My Imaginary Sister who sings “No Regrets” in Spanish, dances on top of the stove hot as a summer steering wheel, full of piss and sunlight, works at nothing so much as her own desires— belches at the symphony— the violins at the peak of crescendo—no apologies. She twirls a string of nectar and reflected light dripping down to her bare toes, sucks mangos at intermission, juice shimmies down her chin into a spangled navel— “Vámonos, novia,” she says, “find a juke joint, some hot blues and cold beers; let’s ride the stars bareback and blow your inheritance on drinks para la casa.” ...

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