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Gift



I gift her shampoos, whole wheat flour, soaps and instant oats
pencils and home food
not porcelain mugs, vases or bouquet of fancy candies
nor DVDs or moonlit nights

it is my way of saying something
that something is yet unknown to me
or to my mind
the word “something” is limiting
“everything” has unlimited exposition

she brings the gift of selfies with
a face full of pain and tears
much more than this
she gifts me unlimited horizons
of laughing over situations
that are gifted to us

she likes those gifts or that’s what she says
she gives me love (not a cliché)
of the kind that’s unimaginable
it is beautiful than love itself
although it is not love
it is neither anything else

she shows her recently shampooed hair
and I see the scene in a slow motion
and the aroma touches my nostrils
and she washes her face at a tap
in an open-air café
and let the water dry, naturally
she loves the coolness of the water
and I look at her face
that has a sudden glow
is it the water?

then she walks and talks and laughs and nods
and listens without listening
the immaculate attention that she doesn’t give
or the phases of her naughty eye movements

irrespective of what I gift to her
or what she gives me as a return gift
I find her trajectory of living riveting

Ella es un regalo
y cuando cierro los ojos
todo lo que veo es un niño





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