I’m going to kill myself unless the day lets me in.
Every face is a closed door. Every tree is a curtain.
The street pigeon, a cheap doorbell, doesn’t ring.
The bright air gives way, but doesn’t give in or out.
My so-called friends scold, from my dark pint,
Get a grip, amigo! My hands are holding on
to Lola and little Maria, lovely Rocio and Juan,
but they’re so light one moment, so heavy the next,
cursed suitcases, wrong clothes, discontented bodies,
dislocated souls. I’m going to the Brooklyn Bridge,
to the middle of the bridge, to throw myself over it
to find another door since the day won’t let me in,
unless some tree decides to part its curtain an inch,
unless some bird, perhaps a seagull, begins to sing.