Y otras pasan; y viéndome tan triste,
toman un poquito de ti
en la abrupta arruga de mi hondo dolor.
Cesar Vellejo
I won't let anybody
take a drink
out of this barrel of tears
I've collected from you.

Least of all another woman.

I see her coming along.
I know the type.
I can tell you what she'll
be wearing.

I know the type
I won't like it.

She'll look at that barrel
she's had a few in her day.

Not that she's ever filled one.

She'll remark casually,
"Sweet water,
good to wash my hair."

And who doesn't know
tears are purer
than rain water
and softer on the hair.

Just as she steps toward it
and makes for the cup,
I'll see phantom you
and what you were
brought up by the sea.

And scraps of paper
from this ditch of my brain
will float on the water
and choke her.