Traducción: Mario Domínguez Parra
Exchange I wrote to hera rural song
that she along
the shore would
plunge and rise
to meet these
lips that to her
sung at last
that longed to see her
shine. The moon
departed in her
wake as she
entertained the wet,
and, as pollen
scented from a rose,
left her salt behind
to shimmer
among green waves.
Anaximander Good times were
in store: Honey,
turkeys, mangoes
and guava. Xocoatl,
black beans
and fat tomatoes.
Jaguar sun, moon
dents and maize.
Steam baths
that resulted in
saffron pink
nights and don’t-
expect-me-to-
wake-too-soon
narcotica among
green leaves
and the scent of
pussy and sweet
cenotes at midnight.
Before the war
we called it Oz.
More lately, it is
all that’s rumored
to thrive outside of
solitary confinement,
and “we’ll let you
out soon enough,
after we make you
scarce.” No, thank you.
I want to
feel the crush
of pleasure in
the pleasure of
being free, disarmed
and crushed
against everything.
Crushed against
everything: That
is what I want to
be. Just where it is.
I want to be crushed
exactly, where I am.
