I know these streets 
like a breathing dispensary,
on which I have been

before, from where now

I look back to how

my mother, one morning,

in her skirt, an isle

of snowbells popping

up in the coldest

of days under rocks

known by no one, would

bear my father’s blizzard

to throw on me words

like blankets, wipe

my tears. I wouldn’t even ask

how so much happiness

is even possible 
at once with pain. I

wouldn’t know that day

my baby teeth, all black,

would soon be falling,

come back as white,

revengeful islands. I’d stare 
while loops of light 
would nibble at my childhood
and in no time I would wake up

from such a dream alone,

floating on an iceberg,

no key shining at my neck,

while in the growing distance,

the woman running through me 
like a tender breastbone

is going home by sea,

becoming the sea.