near Barcelona,
in Castle de Fels,
we worried
that our mother would sell us
off to the gypsies
who stopped
their wagon
and horse at the front of our house.
what did they want?
money,
us?
they'd wail
in some strange
language
and hold up their brown
babies,
as if an offering,
a thin man holding the reins
held back
the enormous horse.
we lifted our eyes
just above the windowsill
until the woman
draped in black
gave up.
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