My son is not free, but I am, just as soon as …
oh, but how does a prisoner like me
find ways to earn and save such a fortune?
How?
Imagine the shock, the excitement
the anger, pure rage
Leave my son behind, how?
He is not hers, I won’t let her have him
why does she insist
that he is the child of her old age?
Life is not logical, nothing makes sense
how can this be, one child a slave
—my child, my only child—
while the others, unborn,
are already proclaimed free?
I’ll stay with you, Juanito, I promise
I’ll always live close, in some hut of mud
or shack of palm leaves
your father and I, and all the rest, those still unborn
your brothers and sisters of the future
we will not leave you behind
you will see us, we promise
But you must promise this
please vow that you will not listen
when she calls you the child of her old age
do not listen, do not believe her, and please
never pray
for her death
even though it is the only thing you will wish for
in secret
just as I,
without wanting to wish such a thing
in the presence of God,
already find my silent self
imagining