That it has been possible

to have come this far, to have touched the light, the darkness, love, the empty form of nothingness,
to have suspected that there was or is
still a little sun for these hands,
that my human names, my human feet, the mouth with which I tell the stars things that
only they know, have been possible, that it has been possible
the stone, the migraine, the fall I took
at nine years old on that street in Olmos,
to have come this far

with these eyes
with these years
that are not the same years

of life nor of death, that is surprising,
my years are outside of life and death,
they are mine, like my blood, like my idiocy,
like the stupid aesthetic of my stupid poetry.
Daughters of my bird wings, to have
embraced you, in these years so much mine and no one's,
that is beauty, that is to say, truth.

That grammar was possible
to tell me: today marks 48 years since you set foot
on this wonder called Earth. And that despite
the everyday idiots who
probe our ribs with sticks. Happy
birthday to me, a perfect creation
of chemicals and minerals and pollen from
stars; that life was possible is no small thing. Everything else is a free sample.