by Alfonsina Storni
Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard;
a constellation; whatever you like;
all are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through...
a celestial foot rocks you from above
and a bird traces a pattern for you so you'll forget...
Oh, one request:
If he telephones again
tell him not to keep trying
for I have left...