There are things you never forget that reside somewhere inside your bones: the span of a chord, the way water tastes when it first shoots out of the mouth of a rusted iron pump. Razor-bite of acid applied to a wart, the near-human scream of a goat awaiting its death under guava trees. And everyone comes from imagined origins: land of dark sugar hills, land of multiplying gravestones. You can clean windowpanes with balled-up newsprint and their shine will be like cathedral glass dipped in milk. This is your history, and you bind it in ink and crosses. You were born in its shed but left for an unholy land. Whatever you erect in its image becomes an orchard where you will spend the rest of your days like a bride who can't return until every fruit is charred or picked clean. Who has decided to live in the present. That is, between the crescent's horns.