Windows

I trade my heart for a larger suitcase for those come to the fourth decade.
I count my black garments and prepare for the washing of the dead.
The clotheslines get longer and the umbilical cord gets shorter.
Only pity remains in the womb.

The firstborn son must wait a while,
he can remain silent and play with the ornamental fish.
Afterwards he will break the air with serial cries.
Afterwards he will abandon the sea, the ornamental will die.

What remains will never come
as long as the snow turns to stones when it lands on the garden soil
as long as the wind shares the feathers
that will not be wings one day.

I long for you, for the way that does not know when to arrive.
The longings knock me flat on my face.
I bleed you, bleed names with no identity,
names that I forgot in my school notebook
feet I forgot in my childhood shoes
and eyes that I hung on colorful windows.

WINDOWS