the bullets just screeched past
then in 1914. I can still hear
their extraordinary sound.
They used to praise
Zapata in the Coyoacan
marketplace with songs
published by Posada. On Fri-
days they cost 1 cent
and Cristi and I would sing them
hiding in a big
wardrobe that smelled of walnut.
Meanwhile, my mother and
father watched over us
so that we wouldn't fall into the hands of
the guerillas. I remember a wounded
Carrancista running toward
his stronghold by the river in Coyoacan.
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