Read the poem here: Préstamos.

Another poem in blank verse in Spanish, this time dealing with another of my fixed ideas: the living of a life in a "borrowed" language, and what feel even like borrowed days in a borrowed land, but which ultimately are words, days and a presence I'm responsible for and have been gifted with.

There's a sense of conversation and idle reflection in blank verse, as opposed to the well-formed, finished thought of a sonnet, that feels liberating: sometimes we don't have anything to impart, other than a glimpse of a few lines of our constant mental chatter, perhaps to bond with others, or to make sense of it ourselves.

Read that fragment of mental chatter, in Spanish, here: Préstamos.