There she is, my body.
Cracked parchment,
broken jug of pain,
your wounds gape wide
like ravines in the desert,
the sun scorching your side.

Yet I love you,
my dolorous sack,
my rag bag of passion,
canvas of pleasure,
wide enough even for Diego
to paint with desire.

My father called us “marriage
between an elephant and a dove.”
I am no dove with white wings
and feathers; like a volcano,
I might explode any minute.
I love life too much.

These days the bony one
is ever at my back.
He embraces me in my dreams
and hides under my skirt.
He is constant,
like the moon by my bed,
guarding my maze of pain.

Arbol de la esperanza,
tree of hope,
you grow in me,
my broken back your trunk,
my splintered toes your roots.
You stand firm. Like death,
you answer me to my last cry.

La vida bella,
who needs feet when I have wings to fly?