… you came considerate,
without monarchy over my ships,
no graves created or doleful souls
imploring for rest unto eternity
under the name of the Sun-God.
I played on deck joyfully
with my doll, Pinpón, that little boy
in the songs my Mamí sang,
swept in the lull of your cadence
shifting with your insistence,
your refusals, your denials,
your rests. There was a morning
crowned in absence, no pain,
no willfulness, no regrets!
Washhh, silence rushing
this warm clear foam leapt
and a figure of Socrates—
I knew the whole Brittanica
because I knew so little.
Wrapped in lights for his care,
our infant in his bouncing chair,
ocean eyed and pink like jewels
in the radiant blue brights.
Pinpón, latter day, and I had never
guessed my Mamí thought the same
of me. Pinpón, the Prince
of the home, the pulse beat
of the morning,
noons, and nights.
He was in my arms today crying
to be so confused. I choked
forgetting to ask
if that was the trouble.
Pinpón rolled over into my middle,
curled, and fused to me like
wire to an electrical contact.
I said I know. Now.
I pray I’ll know the song someday.