Promise me,
that on the day I die,
you bleed out my pain
in a rush of tears;
for, if you were to cry,
I would die again . . . .

Promise me,
love,
that when I paint portraits
of myself,
you will spread out my
colors like a stamped
grain of sand

Because,
love,
if it continues like this—
where I have no reason,
I’ll move on without myself,
and then I’ll die all over again . . . .

Please,
love,
carry my happiness with me
so that a comma
etched in a page
will be the moon,
and so that the ripple
of a vein
will open up the
pores of Italy
and find you finding me
all over again

If,
Cuba,
you go on in this way,
crying without me,
I fear I might die all over again . . . .

2000

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