Butterflies ride a flower
under wings that grew
from the water’s song.
They dress in dreams
the wind cuts with a knife
along the sidewalks of the moon.
The breasts of butterflies are perfumed
by their secret liaisons with the sun.
They age gazing at the stars
owned by a vagabond.
They drink the rainbow that crossed
the back of a child in full flight.
When butterflies die
they migrate to your soul.
Roxana Miranda Rupailaf
I confess that I stole the soul of Christ’s heart
that I killed a flower from the back
and shot the stork.
I confess that
I ate all the apples
and that I sigh three times
when the moon rises.
That I lied to innocence
and pounded tenderness.
I confess that I have desired my neighbors
and that I have impure thoughts
about a certain saint.
I confess that I sold myself for money.
That I am not me
and have sinned in thought
word and omission.
And I confess that I do not repent.