de Unamuno

So

I am going to die, they said.

What do I do with this information?

Barefoot on the cobblestones, the Mediterranean

filling my lungs, I stagger and nearly trip

on the streetcar rails.

It's the middle of the night, there's no traffic,

but pretty girls just park where they want to

anyway

and I sink to the ground with my back against

the passenger door of a white Peugeot

and sob until a stray cat emerges

from the haze at the edge of my eyes

and stands watching me.

Somewhere behind me is a fountain,

burbling water falling on marble, it sounds like a woman's voice-

not just a woman, but a mother-

a mother's voice, singing to a baby awakened in the

night

by some incomprehensible terror.

Well, some nights are like that.

When I was a kid I would have recurring dreams of being on a boat

on a vast ocean, all alone, nothing but the sea forever on all sides and the sun burning overhead and a thick white rope coiled around my hands and wrists and forearms. Nothing would happen, no storm or shipwreck. I would just drift, until I woke up.

The atoms of the human structure, the synaptical architecture

miles and miles of nerves and veins

an unending expanse that one day has an end.

A bicycle zips past, a boy pedaling carefully over the rutted cobbles,

a girl clamped to his back, laughter.

It scares the cat, who scampers away into the dark.

My bones are hollow, I am a bird,

I vomit worms for my nonexistent children.

To remain silent is a lie, but what do I do now,

when the boys gather in their buzzcuts and their veined arms

and scream Viva la muerte

without a hint of irony?