The Moya View

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  • The Box My Mother Kept

    The Box My Mother Kept

    The Box My Mother KeptI find her in a boxlabeled “Misc.”full of not-miscellaneous things:wrinkled receipts—pollo, jabón, stamps from the 70’s and 80’s,movie ticket stubs to matinee rom-coms—each neatly placed under curled daisy petals.Birthday cards with crooked suns,one written by my six-year-old selfin tortured handwriting trying to be tender:“Te amo, Mamá”in Sharpie and crayon.A drawing of…

  • Walking in the Rain

    Walking in the Rain

    Walking in the RainI don’t know why rain breaks my heart.No one I loved ever died on a rainy day.In my life, it has become an elegy to sunshine.Maybe, it’s because rain feels like tears.I go outside when it reduces to a soft drizzle,just before the scent of petrichor has settled into the earth,my dog…

  • Rogue Brother

    Rogue Brother

    My brother is an angler devoted to the stream that pools around long boots, making the slow cast that gently whips and ripples the surface with a reel that knows the proper weight of the scales below.Gone are the days when he fished Crandon Pier while sitting on an overturned paint bucket with a cheap…

  • After the Birds: Home

    After the Birds: Home

    Birds know the way home,the door that has their name or how to sing it into existence, if lost.Through it they find each othereven in a burning world—they find their being. And in that last lost skythey sing it into their feet,combine it with the dirt’s prophecy.Look up in the sky, at the birds and…