This City is So Small—Miroslava Rosales

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This city is as small as the hand that writes this
            poem,
as chaotic as my fractured life,
as faded as the dress of the whore in ten centimetre
            heels,
who knows all too well of transactions and marginality,
in a city as vast as the sadness of millions of
            inhabitants.
This city is as small as the foetus in the laboratory,
or the bird fallen short-circuited one winter morning
            in front of my house,
where we write of death,
reciting litanies to virgins of salt and dust, where all
            is so far away;
or the weight of the blade in the bus-jacker’s hand.
This city is so small and with no limits for blood,
as fertile as the garden of my house,
as liquid,
and as solid as the medal I wear round my neck.
This city is so small…
This city is so small it disappears
            from my frosted hand. 


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