We forgot to turn off the gas in the kitchen again,
and I’m not sure if what I saw was a ghost
or a spiritual residue of our old cleaning lady.
Back then, my days were like stretch marks on the skin of time,
I spent most afternoons thinking about a litany
for dust and glass and light,
or about how water is the opposite of blackmail
but ultimately failing at a single original thought.
From behind the drapes, the hollow voice spoke up:
“All microwaves have some kind of terrible hex upon them.”
I just nodded.
It’s uncourteous to speak with your mouth full.
Pablo Damián is a poet and translator living in Buenos Aires, Argentina.