Her fingers were pinched, pinched as the very tips met the top
Of a blue bucket of water.
Her body like a chess piece - a queen - but inverted, tipped over;
The weight on the flattened surface of her small skull
Appeared to crunch the neck below,
Because her shoulders had shrunken, were shrugged
As if she had been asked what she wanted.
The boy was told to cut all the grass: each articulate weed.
Even the long-limbed vines feeling their way along the garden wall.
His knife whips back and forth - whoosh, whoosh, whoosh -
Fixed, he doesn't choose. Even the small mango trees in the shade,
Whose seeds were thrown down after the adventure of a treacherous climb
Onto bowing branches; a feast, the quest of little kings.
Yes, do away with those too.
When did the old woman stop dreaming about the land beyond the mountains?
She harvests the oil of the sunflower, the girassol, that knows to turn -
Gira - to follow the sun across the sky.
Let it grow until it's dry, then cut off its head, pluck and punch the seeds to a drain.
Did she ever pull away from the soil to follow a sunset? My beautiful madrinha,
Godmother, who laughs when I say I want to run beyond those corn stalks,
So I can watch the warm waves of light turn themselves over
To the dark.
She thought I wanted to run to the sky.
And what if I was running there? What if I wanted to?
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"The object isn't to make art, it's to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable."