At three o’clock in the afternoon
of my childhood, the hot pitch road
burns my feet; the wind kicking up the dust,
the dry season trash in the sugar cane-fields
taking me home to my mother
at her siesta.
The soles of my feet are soothed
by the cold terrazzo tiles;
pink anthuriums in a vase.
I skid along the polished floor
down the long corridor.
I have to push and push
against the closed door,
a gale blowing.
I lie next to her,
my arm across her breasts
hurting her,
knocking off her spectacles.
My mother sleeps in her siesta,
then wakes: Darling…
at three in the afternoon
the wind singing in the sugar cane-fields.