I am a skyscraper inhabited by urgency,
a map of nameless streets,
only the suicidal wind dares to speed
past the danger signs of my curves.
Hours merge without boundaries into dawn;
my anxieties open for business twenty-four hours a day
without ever finding peace and quiet
inside the insistent beating of my sleepwalking heart.
Letter to My Mother from Chicago
Don’t worry about me, madrecita,
everything seems fine in the northlands
and I perfect myself before your eyes.
No problem disturbs me
more than ten hours a day
my health is excellent
without doctors or healthy diets
and there is no one to interrupt
my eternal solitude.
But, don’t be worried, mami,
it’s not as bad as you think.
There are millions of jobs here
that don’t pay well
there is a lot of money
in other people’s accounts
new buildings go up every week
with people trapped behind each door.
If I sound sad maybe it’s because
I miss my homeland, my family and everything,
because the weather chills my bones more each year,
because of the things-to-buy list
that grows like a well fed child,
because of the problems that visit me daily
without an invitation.
I’m fine,
I survive day by day
taking care of things myself,
don’t feel sad, viejita,
life is perfect here.
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