Anatomy of Failure
My mother never forgot the sky
that illumined the square of my town.
She talked about the gazebo in front
train station, the aqueduct arches
which brought the turbid sound of water
in the mornings.
The mist reached her thoughts,
she listened to the young man's footsteps
as he swept the square
with his broom of mallows.
The light coming through the window
lit up her face. The bitterness
of her empty hands hurts.
No breath ever incited her hair.
My mother is an abandoned house.
My father was the one who lived inside.