The white-haired man unbuttoned
his belt and parked the car in the darkest
side of the street. At that time
my abuela would have already
told us: girls,if you keep eating
so much, you are going to dream
of elephants.

Girl, told me the white-haired man
before zipping up and putting the tissues
back in the glove compartment: nothing
happened here, nothing
you didn’t want.

Abuela, I would have liked to ask her
before she died:but what’s wrong
with dreaming
of elephants?

The man I love is now lying
on the other side of my bed,
his chest swells, the sound
of his snoring doesn’t let me sleep.

Even if he is a man,
I have to constantly remind myself,
he is not the white-haired man.

Trying not to make noise,
I climb the wooden stairs,
open the fridge and eat
two cold tamales, a slice
of cheese and a whole loaf
of old bread to be able to stay
forever, dreaming of elephants.