Anatomy of Failure

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.