California

Fresh as a lettuce

I

She no longer loves.

The whites of her eyes fold like a sheet,

sweat like a sheet,

and like a sheet,

cry at the hour of their death.

II

Racism: sheetless bed,

not even a rag

or a cloth or a scent,

not even a picture con safos

not what you do against me or to me,

but what you didn't manage to do,

didn't have time,

didn't make that phone call for him,

didn't tell that friend about her,

didn't have time

didn't will.

III

California,

not even a ghost

a doll, or a prayer,

not even an apple of paradise,

or a yellow brick yard,

not even.

IV

Fresh as a lettuce

she sits on a slim-fast diet

getting her nails done,

filled in,

while they cut out our first tongue

at the beauty parlour

V

Plastic surgery,

removing the growth of culture

erasing the part of us we remember without a dictionary

She sits fresh as a lettuce

California, the woman, man and child

getting her belly buton pierced for her new gold ring.

VI

Next week,

her urban skin tatooed

with a mute image of a cleaning lady

just like a good dream

dark only on the outside

grafitti only on the inside,

fresh as a lettuce.