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Acapella Acapella by Cristina Querrer Where the song began was at the edge of the bridge contemplating the jump. How can I not love without wagering a war? Now as it stands your blood will mix with my blood producing mestizas bastard children of alcholic, sex-crazed GIs. Comrade, pare ko, it was my Filipino uncle who died in the 70’s fighting guerilla forces in the jungle of Mindanoa many, many years before this earth split open and claims of familiarity ceased. I have for so long sung without music— Just like the painter who can’t paint the image— too broke to afford cadmium or black to mix for that emotion. As it stands, it is my voice floating down the hallway and my fellow neighbors hold their breath for the next note the next story Can she do it? They wonder, but when the high note, crashes like thunder… I fail once again. Someday, I guess I will stop second-guessing— accept they will always leave me. Little wars will pick up speed even long after the height of Vietnam, exactly where I began. The song will end and a new one shall begin and there emerges a solitary voice in a barrio, or from a cardboard house overlooking the sewage— far-reaching, travelling over oceans, underneath the voiceless stars, just to fill in and smooth over our pockmarked world and bullet-ridden hearts. |
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