Should I have known already
the time of his eyes’ formation,
the time they began to walk behind me,
and the visiting hours of dreams,
I don’t know from where . . .
that poets become refugees and
tribeswomen suffer chronic olive craving.
they’ll take this son of mine and make a turnip of his head.
I won’t let them.
I want this child to play, this child
to love, this child
to refuse death.
Do you know a general, dear, who has given birth?
An admiral who lives with two hearts?
Abandon these pointed fingers.
perpendicular to the lips aren’t sterilized.
They stop tears in one’s heart
and then dark silences
make a tragedy of the waiting room.
My back hurts
I’m afraid, dear,
I want to swallow my children.