← Issue 10

Cien años de soledad

by Carlota Gamboa

I would later be           asked to remember                 
remote afternoons in which I learned about theft
of sleep, the many names for one face.
Balconies threw overgrown ornaments down 

like descending coins into a fountain. One by one
had been          stolen: the red flowers, the river’s
direction, the guns used during the final act. The United
Fruit Company with their verandas & white       wicker

ceiling fans saying      I won’t             forget the row of pink
houses             & always do. Where we choose to hang
our disbelief. Memories are       what’s left
in the green smoke of a leaving train.

The slow departure of endless windows still
draws boxes of light that land on my floor in the dark.

Carlota Gamboa is from Los Angeles, California. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at Washington University in St. Louis.