She tells me a child built her house
one Spring afternoon,
but that the child was killed
crossing the street.
She says she read it in the newspaper,
that at the corner of this and this avenue
a child was run down by an automobile.
Of course i do not believe her.
she has built the house herself,
hung the oranges and coloured beads in the doorways,
crayoned flowers on the walls.
she has made the paper things for the wind,
collected crooked stones for their shadows in the sun,
fastened yellow and dark balloons to the ceiling.
Each time I visit her
she repeats the story of the child to me,
I never qusetion her.It is important
to understand one's part in a legend.
I take my place
among the paper fish and make-believe clocks,
naming the flowers she has drawn,
smiling while she paints my head on large clay coins,
and making a sort of courtly love to her
when she contemplates her own traffic death.