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.