De Corazón

 

I

And she,

my mother

need not write books,

for her ink

has fallen on industrial pages,

it is no chisel

but blood can mark.

 

 

II

Her word is with her once a month,

her dishes get washed with her transparent menstruation,

her word has the power to turn into education,

her care into people of loyalty.

 

 

III

I'll continue to write from the blood she lends me,

joyfully,

from the hand of what might have been another sibling.