We never spoke a word about death, mother,
Just as married couples never talk about sex,
Just as doctors never use the word 'blood,'
Just as the mailman never needs to say 'news,'
And frogmen never need to mention 'air.'

Yet fear adorns everything you touch,
The same way the gait of black harvesters
Causes the cotton fields to quiver.

In the morning
Your chamomile breath
Escapes like a lamb
From the sheep pen.
On the wrinkled pillow
Are unfamiliar white hairs,
And metallic black hairclips.

Do not expect it to arrive loudly
In motley dress
With bells attached to its elbows and knees
Like Carnival Clowns
Or Morris Dancers at the end of May.

You will never see the Carnival Clowns!

You will see a child with spindly legs and a thick crop of hair
Who had no time to grow up.
Did you never hear them say
That death is as close to birth
As two nostrils to one another
Letting out a deep groan?