Down there in the orange groves
Where the rattlesnakes hibernate telling their
Long winded fairytales to little girls:
I do not know who they are, but they believe
Themselves to be real-
They languish over the cathedrals, or make small talk
Upon the windowsill,
While the ixora blooms red and yellow like
Helicopters in tandem across the park,
Across the adobe:
Inside we made love: we sweated perfumed waterfalls,
And butterflies too wet to fly.
We made love, but you went home across the chicken
Tracks to your husband’s
Children, and you left me teething in that emptied school.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem