Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Ephemeral Hatchling A bird lands on my garden. I know thanks to the discontinuous pixel movements of its brief leaps on the grass. It rummages for supplies with its childlike beak between the tiny leaves on the ground. The grass , I tell myself , the grass is where the food is hidden. I'm about to decipher this mystery, it’s like the poetic breathe that precedes it. Always something violent, the breeze blowing stronger, or the very sensitivity  of the hatchling sensing my garden is: a non-garden a wasteland a fiction a reduced green apparition in the courtyard of the house. When just like that, the bird flaps, flits― drawing pixels like it arrived, and disappears. Then the house faces the reality of its troublesome stay. The common every day trappings feel enlightened as if its ephemeral presence provided them with fleeting certainties and endless senses.

Burned Memoirs I've kept them for so long they smell like scandal. One after another they rhapsodized our days with unimaginable desires, forbidden wines that never ripened poured on the dregs. Burned in the backyard they no longer mean anything only the coal of years or perhaps your fruit, supposed nest of tenderness, barely the blade of a paper flag blackened by polluted winds. The photographs responsible for the ferocity of earth multiply inside my memory like your skin once agitated my breathe. You're nothing, I'm nothing, this never happened and for the time being the always treacherous memory will be our dubious shore.