All the melons will tell you about breaking,
the stem weakens with heavy—
a baby falls after their first steps.
In November of 1999, my brother turned three
he cried when our cousin hit the piñata,
my brother sobbed throughout his birthday.
We know heavy from a young age,
every time you cry, you weigh the same
you would think the opposite.
The body produces more tears—there is more
water in the world then there is land
no one tells you that.
Or how there’s water in the air, it was then I knew
invisibility was real like the ghost I saw in 1997
my mami told me it was her father.
My mother didn’t break then—already broken
every body has too much heavy
the human body is at least sixty percent water.

Tanya Castro is a writer from Oakland, California. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Saint Mary’s College of California. Tanya’s work is a Best of Microfiction 2022 winner as well as nominated for Best of the Net 2021. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Acentos Review, Lost Balloon and Mason Jar Press.

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