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Serape RODNEY GOMEZ [Adrian Esparza, One and the same, 2005, serape, plastic trim and nails] When I was ten my mother gave me a serape, smooth as axolotl skin. I wore it at dusk to draw offspring. I’d been told that if I buried it, a refugee would emerge. So I dug a grave between two retamas. I had never imaged a twin. But one morning , covered in mud, was a mirror of me at the front door. My mother wove him a coat to keep warm and soon I never even existed. It’s frightening to know how quickly a man without belief will disappear. All that was left was a desert, dense with thirst. This is what happens when you unravel a thing already unraveled— the body finds another body to cover its void. ♦ ♦ ♦ ...

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