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I thought you will be here
across this table
and brew an evening
with a coffee's aroma.

I thought you will cut this hard air
like an old bread loaf
and wipe away life's wasted crumbs
with your perfumed handcloth.

I thought you will light this cigar
with your damp eyes
and fire a deluge
in you, in me.

Llosa

It was here she gave birth to her bastard baby boy
and here did the baby sleep to her lullabies.

Here lies the woolen cloth which she forced inside
his little, tender mouth.

Aren’t you getting the stench of the baby’s rotting body,
for it was here she had hidden her beloved?

She took her pilgrimage through this dry terrain,
through this dust, through this Brazil.

Many days into her pilgrimage
it was here she was raped once.

Many weeks into her pilgrimage
it was here she was raped the second time.

Many months into her pilgrimage
it was here she was raped the third time.

It was here she felt compassion towards
her fourth rapist, the young shepherd boy.

Perhaps you can see her black hair,
which she cut off to redeem her weakness.

It was here she met the Blessed Jesus the Counselor
and these are the divine streets of Belo Monte
where she walked.

Maria Quadrado, Mother of Men,
one among the truest of all Christians,
lie buried here.

Seeking

A sudden breeze
as cold as a dead child's palm,
from the entrails of the ancient cemetery,
reaching for something.

A gush of water
sparkling like the eyes of a mother,
from histories hidden by poets,
searching for a child.

Winds and water streams.
What are they,
but ghosts of yesteryears
in search of a body?

Take my flesh and my vanity,
my grief and my mirth.

Take all these.

And give me your ever-flowing soul.

Defiance

It is not that easy

to get rid of the dead.

They have a special way
of surprising you
with their scent
whenever you apply aftershaves.

Spillage

Sometimes I forget
that poetry exists.
It takes a few
moments before I am reminded of that;
but by then I would have missed my chance
to whimper like a little girl
at the loss of her flower casket.

When I wake up to poetry
and its inebriated ways
I see whatever I have missed
as far receding islands.
Leaning from the stern
I crave to be there,
feel their white sands
and climb their marble mountains.

But nothing,
not even poetry takes me there.