Felix Sierra Montoya Jr.

I sit here and speak to my dead grandfather:

Grandpa, the house you died in is not the same. Your garden replaced by fountains and bird houses—

At dawn, when the world is waking, but darkness remains—I lay out my day

and because I have a tendency to be a fatalist, I think of all the bad things that have happened at me—not to me—but AT ME, because dialogue is everything, and how we speak to ourselves, is everything, and I weep in that half-light dawning, birds sing softly, waking with the sun and I wonder how a world as beautiful as this could be so ribboned with perversions.

How soft the daylight breaks into my eyes and I can tell you stories of how I am loved now, how all the pain you knew existed in me, has almost re-arranged into a fist—how all the rage has altered into laughter, and how you helped remind me that a child is only that if you allow it.

The sunrise peaks through spires—

a sight I never tire of—

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