Jul/Aug 2004 • Poetry • Special Feature


by Liliana Bayer


Doņa Isabel's magic garden:
oregano beds divided by perfect paths,
straight lines drawn by an imaginary eraser,
nocturnal stage for some feral cat's escapade—
memories of childhood I still smell.

The chap in the market wraps up the herbs,
unaware of the trigger he has pulled.
His Chinese tongue is so remote
from Doņa Isabel's Spanish chants,
I can still hear her laugh.


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