Briceida Cuevas Cob


your breasts are two little girls jostling each other in play when you wash.
The rainbow of your glance is suspended in the lather.
To look at you one wouldn’t guess you suffer,
wouldn’t know that at the foot of your washtub you hoard part of your story.
You give a whistle,
your whistle is a thread where you will hang your tiredness.
The wind
is a mischievous lad who tugs and tugs at your laundry.
On the trees of the east
the sun is a newborn baby scattering his warm yellow tears.