George Mario Angel Quintero - OLD DONKEY, SAYS MY WIFE.

The flowers lift their heads,
They laugh and separate from their stems.
They come toward me
Through the air like spirits,
Colorful, ephemeral.

Don’t stay there, old donkey.
At night, violence.
In the sun, just three bladders
Yucking it up.

Where? I haw.
Where theives
Fall in love,
Make idiots of themselves,
And are killed.

What suited me yesterday,
Today does not.
The children
Torture us.
Their mothers
Congratulate them.

I chew on rose petals.
I peer out, and a cascade
Of slaves and martyrdoms
Comes down to remodel
An enchantment.
Through this human espalier,

Dense in leaves,
My moist eyes
Blink.
The flowers grow still.

A tender hand,
Perhaps blind,
Beneath the stinging sun,
Extends itself to me.

Come, old donkey, come.
We left the garden on foot.