1
seasons pass by absence weighs
inside me in the backyard I can breathe some fresh air
but no pleasure around a stormy sky wraps every
corner with shadows scatters melancholy
in the adjoining ground the wind awakes the old eucalyptus tree
a cranky branch bends over this place threatens to fall
a survivor rosebush is trembling as if it were afraid of being
destroyed its leaves looking decayed helpless
the soil is dry the trees’ trunks are clamoring for rain
holding exhausted their fragile new branches
between them and my kitchen windows there is a gap
it was the place where the pine tree used to be
I breathe deeply trying to fill the emptiness left by the lack of
communication between my daughter and me
I feel deprived wondering who or what is going to give me back
all the lost hours the unspoken words the unsaid love
2
Dolls of three generations lay on my bed.
Our girl plays house plays baby with them,
her rag doll Pepona dirty and discolored,
Lulú her mother’s naked and over bathed doll.
my blue-eyed malcriado with a broken leg
all play family with her; she talks to them
she answers for them, attaching together
the puzzle pieces of her little life.
Our dolls are spread on the floors
all over the house. I paint these dolls
laying on the streets of this city’s port,
sharing memories with the samovar
on the small table, pushed by the wind,
swinging in the sky with our little child.
Three generations like our dolls we are,
puppets in the hands of a crazy puppeteer
lives flying at random in this heavy air.
.
