One silence, a flash.
A sip of coffee before I knew bitter.
A hole in a hole.

Two paths to a path
and his eyes closed napping.
Many mirrors are twofold.
Late afternoon and see two lights,
two sons and three.

Three is peace and security,
an accomplice or an enemy.
Three books open, three grains of salt.

Four times a name and nothing said.
Four is the same as two.

And if you ask five times
What am I doing here, burning your bed,
let it burn and go.

From Repetition Nineteen (Nightboat Books, 2020) by Mónica de la Torre. Copyright © 2020 by Mónica de la Torre. Used with permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Nightboat Books, nightboat.org.