Today Was Tomorrow

Mulata

Mulata em Rua Vermelha, 1960

I was too busy wondering if you
would still love me tomorrow,
too busy to sense that our today was tomorrow.
Our very beginning was our end;
our tomorrow did not exist.
It was all far too torn for us to mend.

I feel stupid for giving our children names-
the ones we were supposed to have,
the ones we would never have
because “we” itself was struggling to breathe,
because “we” itself was dying.

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Too Good for Her

You tell her you don’t deserve
her when you have nothing.
Then you get something- many things;
you become the king of things.
You begin to regret the sweet nothings
you uttered when you were naked,
when your hands were empty.

Beelzebub pays you a visit.
He perches on your penis,
washes on your eyes,
and shows you beelzeboobs and beelzebutts.
Then he tells you she doesn’t deserve you.
He reminds you that she can’t spell “deserve”.

You can now see all her inadequacies,
her mistakes,
her little flaws.
The things you used to love
quickly become the things you hate,
the things you can’t stand,
the things that irritate.

Who deserves whom?
Who deserves what?
Who deserves whom?
Who deserves “what?!”
Who deserves whom?
Who deserves worth?