BrassA crafty peasant, a little dolorosa,
she came to my mother brimming with resentment.
“You mustn’t listen to those dirty liars
whose wicked tongues’ll tell you me and the mayor
have churned the butter and whipped it to a froth”
(the whole time she was getting hotter and hotter,
thrusting a finger back and forth in the air).
And Mama, who knew the lay of the land all right,
decided to play the fool so as not to fight
with a strumpet who stank of spent milk but still had
two breasts that stood up pretty firm and hard.
(Translated by Michael Palma)