SHE SPOKE WITH DEATH
Sarita Sullivan, my mother
She talked to death
He said, come find
invisible strait line and time has run
The Fates weave the thread last no longer
poppies bloom in my garden
The house is dark and the bread has
been distributed only crumbs in my trembling hands
and delivered them to the birds
those that nested in my hair
those who now fly in lustful evenings
not belong to me Come find
said in my ear Sing Orfeo's song
But sing it backwards to find the light in the darkness beyond.
To keep the shadows in the chest
oblivion and left me with the joy
lying on the table and generous.
II
I have talked to death. - Said the earliest known
The one that took my mother on a fateful night.
My father, wrapped in fog
of dreams and sadness of lost love. My three brothers
one by one in a long litany.
who tramped into the house
air like a ghost, my husband was left
and love like a wilted flower
pinned to my bra strap of
I have talked to death, "said
I talked to all
ghosts that inhabited the day to day sleep and wakefulness.
I talked with her and forgave
every pain and every absence.
We have become friends
She has offered his arm
a place to put the body
and discover the dream of dreams.
III
She was the girl who spun a light fabric to wrap
life.
The witch who told stories of goblins and ghosts and scattered his deck
miraculous
on the table to read there the exact figure of the happy days
that perfumed the house with spices
who came into the hold of ships and
Queen to be played in the carnival of life
with
translucent pearl necklace which looked at dusk on the day
stars in her eyes the color of time.
I can touch the fabric that built
secret spaces of the house.
the steaming pot to pay homage to the table everyday
The Napoleon of love, written in the thousand and one nights
life And the red glow in the alchemy of shared wine.
I can still hear the faint murmur of her lullaby.
And the birds that fluttered in his laughter
And remember in the annals of the brightness of his generous hand
And now the end of the road, when the dew still looks in the garden
impatiens
their presence is a cocoon that dropped petals like wings.
To resume the flight there in memory where it keeps
nostalgia and perfume the air in the house because it has never died.
Sarita Sullivan, my mother
She talked to death
He said, come find
invisible strait line and time has run
The Fates weave the thread last no longer
poppies bloom in my garden
The house is dark and the bread has
been distributed only crumbs in my trembling hands
and delivered them to the birds
those that nested in my hair
those who now fly in lustful evenings
not belong to me Come find
said in my ear Sing Orfeo's song
But sing it backwards to find the light in the darkness beyond.
To keep the shadows in the chest
oblivion and left me with the joy
lying on the table and generous.
II
I have talked to death. - Said the earliest known
The one that took my mother on a fateful night.
My father, wrapped in fog
of dreams and sadness of lost love. My three brothers
one by one in a long litany.
who tramped into the house
air like a ghost, my husband was left
and love like a wilted flower
pinned to my bra strap of
I have talked to death, "said
I talked to all
ghosts that inhabited the day to day sleep and wakefulness.
I talked with her and forgave
every pain and every absence.
We have become friends
She has offered his arm
a place to put the body
and discover the dream of dreams.
III
She was the girl who spun a light fabric to wrap
life.
The witch who told stories of goblins and ghosts and scattered his deck
miraculous
on the table to read there the exact figure of the happy days
that perfumed the house with spices
who came into the hold of ships and
Queen to be played in the carnival of life
with
translucent pearl necklace which looked at dusk on the day
stars in her eyes the color of time.
I can touch the fabric that built
secret spaces of the house.
the steaming pot to pay homage to the table everyday
The Napoleon of love, written in the thousand and one nights
life And the red glow in the alchemy of shared wine.
I can still hear the faint murmur of her lullaby.
And the birds that fluttered in his laughter
And remember in the annals of the brightness of his generous hand
And now the end of the road, when the dew still looks in the garden
impatiens
their presence is a cocoon that dropped petals like wings.
To resume the flight there in memory where it keeps
nostalgia and perfume the air in the house because it has never died.
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