Dedications

Abstract

I see her in front of her machine conjuring her hatreds while she saves the nymphs from all atrocious mythology. I see her going through her house which is the sheet of paper where she finds the writing. She can cry in the kitchen and not over onions or poorly seasoned meat. In the spice racks she sees more than pepper. With the fury of the goddesses she takes fireballs and her verse becomes a spear because in her poetry is not made of flowers or stars but of obsidian points of the most exact human.