On a night of the deepest stillness,
a medicine cabinet had shown
the labyrinthian melancholy of stars.
In a victorian shadowbox, an evil juggler's head.
The light of cities trapped within bottles.
Poisonous abodes appearing to be hemlock;
Precious in their multitude of yeast thriving
microbes they held captive: bottle of Cephalexin:
'Juana B. Palacios, Take one, four times daily.'
She swallowed an unknown future.
The rash travelled around her waist.
* 'Cuando da la vuelta se muere.'*
Laid down to rest, no pills save her
from the leprosy that had become
her shrouded final hours.
Closing the mirror of the cabinet,
a little breath sighs as a tiny death.
My eyes hold a continuous bridge.
Random objects cloistered in prisms of light,
a referrent for the afterworld.
Prescription: long expired.
* upon completing its turn, one dies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem