After fifteen years
without seeing my daughter's eyes,
a man's voice offered me by phone
if I wanted to share the diapers
with a beautiful grandson:
It was a carnal brushstroke
making a graffiti
in the faded painting
of my superego.
But I couldn't afford
that much sweetness,
even though the voice
of my alleged son-in-law,
(Yankee of big feet) ,
spoke to me in Spanish.
That day I was alone,
facing an imaginary cake,
surrounded by ghosts with wig;
they livened my birthday seventy-two.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem