Abusadora Mercenary mourner, inexpert dodger of ghosts, I pour funerary cappuccinos and almost understand what’s gone. Growing quietly drunk on the wine that flows inside my throat, I hear the party through the windows rising like an anthill whose crumbs are flames, Like the maloik that descended unseen while the children picked golden raisins from a bowl of tapioca left to forget itself in the sun. I count pennies which are prayers. The words I never told her burn my chest: I’ll celebrate your death one day. One day I’ll celebrate your death.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Jun 2013 19:39:58 +0000
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