This is a poem called years ago,

in which someone walked into a house
after a hurricane had just passed
through. It smashed an easel
to pieces and broke the row of little
vases on the shelf. Then the weather
changed again and the windows wept, 
no longer able to contain themselves. 
That was the yeast that sustained us 
then. Birds still sang in the trees
though their feet barely touched
our roof. With scissors we cut
chains of paper dolls, hand 
holding the next and the next.
We washed our clothes and hung 
them on the line, where they waved 
at everyone: happy to be rinsed 
and wrung before our bodies 
put them on again. We wiped 
our hands stained with vinegar 
and oil, blood and sawdust. White
jasmines opened along the fence,
unnerving us with their scent.   


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