The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina

by Zoraida Córdova

She’d learned how to arm her face the minute she stepped out the door because of boys and men who cast lines her way like she was another fish in that filthy Hudson they called a river.

“Your heart need not be metal to be strong,”

And why stop at the world, when she might have a chance to see the galaxy?

We don’t talk. None of us. Why don’t we ever talk? Silence is a language of its own in this family. A curse of our own making.