This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I

have no desire to live, my heart.

This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be?

Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman.

This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall

the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;

my block of ice over her poppy,

stronger than her “Don’t be this way!”

My violent black flowers; and the barbaric

and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance.

And the silence of her dignity

with burning holy oils will put an end to it.

So this afternoon, as never before, I am

with this owl, with this heart.

Other women go by; and seeing me so sad,

they take on a bit of you

in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse.

This afternoon it is raining, raining hard. And I

have no desire to live, my heart!