And life is in my hands, suckling at my breast, thrives on the rhythm of my beating heart, warmth of my throbbing belly. - Ana Castillo

paintings
and books conceal more than they ever tell.

Let us shout louder than her memory,
louder than the unheard cries
of 200,000 disappeared,
buried alive in pits,
thrown alive from planes,
butchered and bayoneted
defenseless and blindfolded
in the name of democracy.
It is real, the nightmare,
and without end.
How can we sleep?
How can we sleep?

When i say ours was a love affair, it is an expression of nostalgia and melancholy for the depth of our empathy. (p39)