THE SIXTH DAY

It was the sixth day of creation, mother was dressed in black, she even wore her good hat with the veil, “God should never have done this to us,” she said, in the distance pale men were setting up a large circus tent,
“go home, it’s late,” “what home?” I replied and embraced the streetlamp,
my younger cousin would soon be dead, I shoved her behind the wardrobe, “I love you,” she said, but I undressed her as though she were a whore—and when we buried her I remained forever there, behind the wardrobe, half-eaten by mice,
and it was the sixth day of creation,
the pulleys grunted as they raised the first clock onto the roof of the station,
I sat by the side of the road, so saddened that the blind could see me.