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by Lorna Dee Cervantes
Las casitas near the gray cannery, nestled amid wild abrazos of climbing roses and man-high red geraniums are gone now. The freeway conceals1 it all beneath a raised scar. But under the fake windsounds of the open lanes, in the abandoned lots below, new grasses sprout2, wild mustard remembers, old gardens come back stronger than they were, trees have been left standing3 in their yards. Albaricoqueros, cerezos, nogales . . . Viejitas come here with paper bags to gather greens. Espinaca, verdolagas, yerbabuena . . . I scramble4 over the wire fence that would have kept me out. Once, I wanted out, wanted the rigid5 lanes to take me to a place without sun, without the smell of tomatoes burning on swing shift in the greasy6 summer air. Maybe it's here en los campos extra?os de esta ciudad where I'll find it, that part of me mown under or a loose seed. 点击收听单词发音
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