We have come far south.
Beyond this, the oldest women
shelling limas into black shawls,
Portillo scratching his name
on the walls, the slender ribbons
of piss, children patting the mud.
If we go on, we might stop
in the street in the very place
In Spanish you whisper there is no
time left. In a few hours a staircase
will touch the door of a plane, you will
empty your bag at the gate to show them
you have no gun, we will hold each other.
During the night your friends come
to help [...]
para Claribel Alegria
In Deya, she tells me, when the mist
rises out of the rocks it comes
so close to her hands she could
tear it to pieces like bread.
She holds her drink and motions
with one hand to describe it.
What she would do with
so many bask [...]