October Night, 1977
An October night and my father and mother in their bedroom,
when as yet they are not
father and mother to anyone.
The man takes off his shirt:
he hangs it on the chair before the mirror, a headless man.
The woman puts her trousers and shirt in the wardrobe:
one more hanged woman suspended on a rack.
Neither of them looks in the mirror on the chest-of-drawers.
They slip between the sheets
each on their own side:
the two sides of the frontier, of customs.
The woman imagines
the damp spot on the wall painted.
Her feet are cold. She takes shelter
around the man's belly, her breath warm.
Lights out, the sheets are not white;
bodies are, they seem cleaner.
The woman would choose daylight.
The man would choose night.
On that October night
when as yet they are not
father and mother to anyone,
in the desire by decree of the marriage-bed
they are waiting for sleep
each one secluding the other.
© Leire Bilbao