Tell me abuela– in what place do you put your little house, your arms full of grasses, your gashes stinking in a green sun?
doves are bees are blades
circling the mountains,
small and dusty.
blue and thorny, my little house opens
its mouth to me.
arid iron rim.
broken arm.
flat sun.
And in the silence of black night, the heads
of the mountains
fall.
[translation]
Blades
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