Portrait with Summer Apparitions

In the dusty aparador of history,
      an archive of tastes won't waken.

Trees make stencils against the window:
      siniguelas, macopa, pinched 

lanzones flesh. As if you could conjure
      the singular pucker of cotton fruit:

its brown striations, its hollowed-out
      cheek, its mounded center of pulp.  

You never could tell which saints 
      pressed their bodies into crevices

of wooden cookie molds; couldn't read 
      the mottos scrolled in tiny 

script above their heads. What do you think
      they said? Remember. Don't weep. Forget. 

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