DANCE
I have broken the sun
I am a card that shines
my stars are by the cliff.
I was over there laughing, once
and my hair hung down my shoulders and I sang
and everyone stood still and remained
enchanted.
She has come over the hilltops wrapped in fire;
her mouth’s complaint flies
and her songs fly and so do her alluring lips that explode
into night irises;
from midnight to three, from midnight to three
fatal
at dawn.
When the musician tightens the cuatro strings
and feet rotate
and the living room burns.
I won’t stop returning
I will illuminate the windows
I will tangle the mare’s mane.
I won’t stop returning.
I won’t stop returning.
+++
PARAMACONI
So that Paramaconi arrived, the Toromaina
(Look what you bring on your back
—A ditch, a coffin I bring, a coffin
—Not a wound, an abyss, a coffin)
And it really was very deep
And Ulloa said
“You can tell this one has death
He’s dead, you can see his death”
I’m the piece you still haven’t eaten
—the last one— said Paramaconi
+++
PREMONITIONS
To
Juan Sánchez Peláez
He saw a noose, it hung in his house.
There was a corpse outside
It was a fine and cruel noose
coming out the corpse’s mouth.
He saw a town, he heard screams,
they were coming to kill him
he was carrying a musket, he was sweating
Then he saw a few cows grazing
and a clear and shining valley
and wars
He looked somewhere else
Isabel was in her hammock, swinging,
and beside her birds and enormous glowing leaves
That’s where the sea began to grow
Then Francisco started to lose himself
to lose himself
+++
DINNER
Don’t eat me Francisco
because I’m your death
Me, thick meat of tomatoes and oregano,
me, the salt
I’m your knife
Don’t eat me Francisco
because I’m your edge, your arrow tip,
Me, the deer
the mountain pork
the avocado and the potato
I’m your burial candle,
your incense, your coffin
Don’t eat me Francisco because I’m your holy
water,
the vegetables, me
your shovel, your pick
the place where they dig your grave
Don’t eat me, son, don’t eat me,
because then you won’t be able to vomit me
And Francisco ate his night, his edge, his arrow
tip
and he ate his shovel and his pick
and the coffin
and the candles they didn’t place for him.
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