A damaged horse grazes the city’s pavement.
Rain borrows salt from the old houses, adds
it in the forage. We’ll ride the beast this Christmas.
You hair will brush my darkness. Our shadows
will be uneven, disappear in the shade and in the light.
City is part lights and part mirrors; in a mirror we
see us in the air and whisper, «Where’s the horse?»
Once our father brought a terracotta replica
of an ancient horse. We broke it, and our mother
took the blame, not an event of harrowing impact,
not that it will make us ride on its cold,
wet and shattered back forever.
LatinosUSA 
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