Barrels

Y otras pasan; y vi é ndome 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.