To Chaveta (the stubborn sals dancer) Elizabeth Gutierrez The rhythm of my feet is guilty I cannot deceive the wood and pretend that time is with me and that I have the shape of a butterfly Whenever perfume wafts on the road my wings turn, all the colors chant On a lung that resembles a window It resembles an opportunity absent from my mouth I will not dance with a false rhythm In the form of a lonely rain or in the face of A sign of boredom I won’t pretend to be me anymore I can betray my body again.
