All of the clairvoyant statistics fracture like tragedies of
Our sky,
Like the ashes of birthday wishes over the maelstrom of our green
Planes, of our prettiest and favorite colors;
And I can see Alma all day, and she even parrots my name,
After I cry out hers in my sincerest of pains;
And I dance for her, and I turn around drunkenly, but she says she
Doesn’t want to dance:
Alma has a skull on her phone:
Where does Alma live except where all of the Mexicans live,
And now I can give her a house to prove her body justice; I can give
Her breath under the caterwauling moon: I can skip school for
Alma and remind her that in her secret estuaries is where I am
Necessary to belong.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem