The price of the dowry. Chus Pato

the great stones all wrapped up in moss
as if the meadow flowered a myriad of ice daisies
in the forest

I lived inside the fire
when the lights were red
and the walls embers of glass
The place where I come from is an inverted C in Roman epigraphy

I tell you
“They dig in twin plots
one, the elder, digs deep
until almost touching the earth
the other, traces the furrows diagonally
and in spirals flower cabbages of curly leaf
and potatoes”

the degree of uncertainty grows and grows

I pronounce names you will never understand

the great stacks frozen by the winter

but we, of flowing locks attached to childhood
have damp organs fertile of Atlantic wooded copses
the head which upholds the white stone

see in my face a forest close to Athens
the price of the dowry

my ancestors,
women of the hearth, all of them preceded by oxen
those who contract the production of the operators
those who free blind husbands beyond the seas

after they will say ANTA ANTELA ARCA ARQUIÑA MEDORRA cousa

when they dried up our memories