Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

There’s a volcano in my city. 

I’ve been told 

never to clear the ashes with water.

Or else, 

they solidify and turn 

hard as stone.

These memories float around me. 

Suspended in the air 

like ashes.

I think it’s best to let 

them gather on my hair.

On my dark eyebrows.

On my eyelashes, 

my upper lip.

Remember 

to hold back the tears,

or else,

they might solidify 

and asphyxiate you.

Memories are a volcano erupting. 

Beautiful 

and catastrophic.