Never again does she go to bed with others
and the day she sleeps like a child,
but if at night she hears screams,
they are the cries of his sons.
Sometimes she awakens at dawn,
she opens suitcases, doors,
but look at us like specters
and she walks on our heels.
And a butterfly powder falls
from his quivering wing
that all night she will have knocked
against our lit window.
Or from the corner of the room
she catches our actions
and pile them up in the dark like the spider,
until slowly kill them.
Or she looks in the mirror
as if he was a well …
Although accustomed to the body,
to this patched coat.
But as milk vapor
she shudders and radiates,
if in the sun she comes to sit
or if we offer him flowers.
And she is neither old nor deaf,
and she sees with both eyes,
but like a house full of ghosts
before our eyes it falls into ruins.
