D O N A L D W E L L M A N
_________________________________SEVEN POEMS
Madre
Leticia is not a friendly person,
speaks through her teeth,
not moving her lips.Her lentil soup is fragrant
with coriander and cilantro.I have tracked dust from my sandals
onto her newly washed floors.
I am unclean; I fail to understand
the combat that she shapes between us
in defiance of my undifferentiated powers.In this I have become
responsible for her cruelties.Her boccarones fried in a delicate batter.
Still I would not be her son or husband
who suffer for love.
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