As a child, my blanket shielded me
from dangerous men, or so I thought.
When Señor Mora caressed my feet
I made a prayer to that tattered cloth
to make him leave my room, and he did.
When rebel bandits burst through our door
to threaten my family, I hid
under its soft skin with my sister
until they left the estancia.
On the day the Chimehuin River
flooded its banks, my blanket vanished—
later that night, I would discover
mother whispering by the fireplace,
Señor Mora caressing her face.