For Ma. Victoria.
A kitchen can be the world,
a desert, a place to weep.
We were there: two mothers talking in very low tones
as if there were children sleeping in the bedroom.
But no one was there. Only the resounding silence
where music once filled the room from wall to wall.
We searched for the words. We sipped our tea
looking down the bitter well of the past,
two mothers standing on the bridge that unites them
as they bear their emptiness in their hands.
Translation: 2017, Ezra Fitz.
© Piedad Bonnett