they open their hands to receive the rice
they have fish in their spine that
burned in the sea, burning algae and detached planks
of ships from other worlds,
agitated in the rogue vertigo of tenderness
chew the grains with their gums because their teeth
lost them in the mud, however if one looks at their
eyes, can't avoid the torch, the dark, the months
drinking from the sour honeycomb of the word.
up to here the gray mole embedded in the silence,
from tomorrow the rice will be a painless musical instrument
we will burn the cities together,
we will open our hands to receive the right ration
to each of our corpses, and if love passed its hand,
spread the starving plate of days,
we will invite you the blue fur of the sky, they are the filings
that make misery funny, the lip complaining
who learned to laugh in the storm.