I know this really isn’t Spain. But still,
You’d think I’d find my father here, his lips
On every cup. You’d think the holly bush
Weren’t quite so sharp. I think Rumanian
Is coming from my favorite table in
The back. Are all these people reading Lorca?

In Jaime’s picture of the world, a heart
As big as South America shines out,
The center of the only ocean. Three
Stick figures (one is labeled “me”) are drawn
Beside the world, as if such suffering
Could make us more objective. Jaime’s bald