From the corners of the city
men are riding toward us on bicycles,
whistling happily.
It is evening.
The streets are ripe bananas.

Our hands had vocations
before they learn to peel and scrub.
No one had to teach them how to love,
where to touch.

This is the hiss the iron makes,
steaming the collars of shirts.
The men are bringing kisses,
a folded note describing our eyes.

It is the message the birds
click in the trees,
someone is coming,
there are people yet to meet
whose names are not written
in the world of the dead.

Guatemala City