Un poema de Sharon Olds

For you

In the morning, when I´m pouring the hot milk

into the coffee, I put the side of my

face near the convex pitcher to watch

the last, round drop from the spout,

and it feels like being cheek to cheek

whit a baby. Sometimes the orb pops back up,

a ball of cream balanced on a whale´s

watery exhale. Then I gather my tools,

the cherry sounding-board tray that will rest on my

lap, the phone, the bird book to look up

the purple martin; tray, phone,

martin, Trayvon Martin, song was

invented for you, art was made

for you, painting, writing, was yours,

our youngest, our most precious, to remind us

to shield you—all was yours, all that is

left on earth, whit your body, was for you.

Sharon Olds

The New Yorker

May 14, 2018