the girls on my block are waiting for Love.
Love is a 6-foot tall black guy,
strong teeth, strong eyes, and
the fibrous body of a god. every afternoon
he comes down my street with a bag full of bread
that he sells at a five peso profit.
the housewives make their orders:
‘Love, give me one.’
‘come over here.’
‘they’re warm.’
‘hey wait, don’t go.’
‘don’t forget you owe me something.’
‘oh, yeah.’
every afternoon it’s the same old thing.
he blows his whistle and skilfully
hawks his goods. the housewives
start discussing the value of Love.
some won’t eat if he doesn’t come by.
Chiqui’s husband, man beyond compare,
a young and vehement militant
who’d spent a few months cutting cane,
stabbed him three times.
the sugar mill where he was working didn’t reach its target
and the guy’s come home a wreck.
these things shouldn’t happen,
my wife says woefully,
putting my sandwich on the table.
this block marches on to the same old rhythm.
the new baker’s called Ivan.
