são miguel
estefânia, we can see you in that early afternoon. your small body moving its pain along, a pain that lingers around the corners of your mouth but does not always hurt. estefânia, we can see you moving like heavy rain. a small body covered in a long-sleeved blouse, a skirt touching just below the knee, a headscarf over your shorter-than-desirable brown, almost black threads of hair. a small body, estefânia, a small body covered in darkness, grieving both deaths that were and deaths to be. estefânia, we are looking at you right now, at this precise moment in time. we are looking at you as you sit on that wooden chair, a chair that as material has been misplaced in an imagined background depicting a deep forest of what is yet to come. estefânia, we can see you in this very early afternoon. a small body, an abandoned half-lived-in body, we are looking at it right now