Whatever pretty architecture starting out
Yawning and seesawing her legs and trying to find her
Way to grandmother's house:
Getting lost into the busiest prisms that hang beside
The rented houses of our shared childhoods
Remembered at the end of dead end streets
Amputated into canals:
Streets now paved where Mexicans and Mexicans now
Live—reminisces of you come up to surface
In the beautiful rainstorms of a summer that is
Made up of just so many pretty words:
As I try to teach the children their manners,
As their idols are incarcerated,
And their parents or whoever make love in the woods.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem