By Rafael Campo
Unluckily, the day begins: a bomb
has detonated in Mumbai. Again,
we ask ourselves. Is this what we’ve become?
Unluckily, the night has eyes. A train
makes music of the city’s sleeplessness
again; a baby shrieks with hunger or
the need to have its diaper changed. Unless
he finds a job, the man who lives next door
will have to go on unemployment. Bombs
explode in other places, ruining
other lives, scarring other faces. Crumbs
form constellations in my sink. The ring
of doorbells, telephones, and certain phrases:
The night dies. Unlucky Saturn rises.