Noches de Verano En La Casa Gris

I remember the summer nights in the gray house.
At thirteen, I always ran to your room
and your breasts were something more
than just a big place I used to sleep.

Your strong scent of wet earth and sweat,
the sepia photos and the crucifix.
You’d hit me for finishing before we started
but I hold no grudge against you.
No, now I don’t feel anything.

Some afternoons I’d play in the yard pretending I could fly.
You’d make dinner in the coal stove.
So much meat, and I so shy,
and in my mouth, dinner tasted like you.

A smoke every time I did it right,
a slap if I wet my pants.
Now I don’t think of you more than sometimes.
You’re just not at the age to fly anymore.
No, I’m too old to fly now
and now I don’t feel anything.