Mother
My mother had no garden
but rather steep islands
floating, beneath the sun,
on their delicate corals.
She had no clean branch
in her eye but many garrotes.
What a time that was when she ran, barefoot,
on the limestone of the orphanages
and she did not know how to laugh
and she could not even gaze at the horizon.
She had no ivory chamber,
nor a wicker parlor,
nor the silent stained glass of the tropics.
My mother had the song and the handkerchief
to cradle my heart's faith
to lift her head of a queen, ignored,
and to leave us her hands, like precious stones,
before the cold remains of the enemy.
Translated by Heather Rosario Sievert
"Madre, " Piedra pulida
