Malgorzata, After 39 Years

“My older brother,
You remember him,
Died four years ago.
Very tragic.

Fell under a train,
But I don’t believe
He was drunk,
Though he was a gambler.

When we were young
He wouldn’t take me
To dances with his friends
Because of my eyeglasses.

Without glasses,
I squinted
Nobody wanted to dance
With a girl who squinted.

And being ahead of me
He got Mom’s curly hair,
Useless to a guy,
Leaving me looking like a mouse”.

Meeting Borges

Standing before me, an old man,
His eyes half-closed and the mouth half-opened
Ready to say something,
Except he doesn’t.

In his hands, an old oriental ladies’ fan;
He unfolds it, segment by segment,
Each with its own design,
Each plucking a different chord.
Soon the fan is fully opened and shows yet another design.
“Ah, I get it.” I say.
“You think so”, says he, “Let me show you”
He snaps the fan shut and unfolds it again.
The designs are different yet familiar,
They include me looking at the fan.
“Oh, I get it now.” I say.


Borges makes a face and walks away in disgust.