| Mis Poemas a mi Mama |
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| What shaped me My sculptress whispered of love when chiseling my early years. O, sometimes the sharp tip of the chisel took out two pairs of liquid tears. |
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| En honor a mi Mamita |
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| The Tower Higher than others, her tower could have stood apart or could have been attached, as those on churches. But the first attack made her heart fall into such disrepair that she closed her tower. Hurting tower; hermetic, impenetrable. Hard and strong. Imposing fortress. The second attack destroyed her tower, leaving her heart lacking walls, which, broken, I embraced. |
| Older than me My mother's spring bloomed of dreams. She imagined me, though not me, being the rose that would bloom in summer. Thought as everlasting dreams but faded in the fall, today she cannot see my vernal hopes of being as the rose she hoped for summer. |
| Less clear Death was flowers in a far place. Far in time. Far in space. Far from my family and myself. But the day it touched the heart in my heart with its cold fingers, its image in my mind turned into a deathly blue, incomprehensible, and obscure. |
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