Empty pots blow through front garden. We all wonder where on earth is a more suitable climate,
thinking of you, living in Barcelona, wondering if you ever think of your sister, Beatriz, Beatrice.
Storm damage includes fallen or uprooted trees, flashing from recently restored building,
neighbour's bird feeder moving at one hundred and fifty one miles per hour, nerves lost in squall.
Each day begins with a search for attention.
Do you gratify your ancestors forcing air through unusual reed instruments?
Let's hide in midwinter, senses deadened in ink blackened wind,
thoughts deteriorating like debris, long haul, slowing pulse.
Greetings, my sister
who wore a turban sometimes. At others,
parting from crown to forehead, black hair slicked to skull,
one lock obscuring mi vanidad and your vision.
Still, all heads turned in streets and alleys of Jerusalem.
The orthodox hid their faces from your song and your ojos infinitos.
My sister. El viento. viento, my unhappy soul,
who lost her corazón and looks for you everywhere.
The sad lines that conjure your face. Your voice:
My sister! Holá! and you will ask: response remains the same.
You who knowher life en vez de flores was often a tide,
but the children, the children. You never met my beautiful daughter.
Do you recall when Ezequiel borrowed your clothes and shocked
the Holy City in Chinese skullcap and your Arabian gown black with embroidery?
Es poison! he said and threw away the sugar.
Es poison! and discarded the white rice.
Your diary full with four lovers at once and your sister sadly lagging behind,
the needle stuck, the refrain en las noches dark, blind.
She conveys her love to Beatriz. She wishes her to know time passes.
She kisses her sister. The misma noche, Beatriz. Su voz and his eyes en mi interior still.
Tremblar, Beatriz. Tremblar. Still