lunes, 9 de octubre de 2017

A pear from the tree, CR - VocalesV

By the grace of birds

Walter bows his head when anyone passes next to him
I guess it comes from years of hideous training.
Like elephants in a circus learn to bow their heads
or lions in cages learn to sit still.
He carries himself with a contagious nostalgia,
with hoses, vacuum cleaners, and bottles of chlorine.
He cleans the pool with a slow rhythm, inspecting
one leaf at a time; maybe saving one or two chipmunks
that found their way to the water.
Walter wears a green jumpsuit,
and a white mustache that adorns his sad eyes.
Every time I see him, he fills me with an immense sadness.
Sometimes as I write next to the window, I avert his gaze
to avoid saying hello, to avoid feeling sad.

Walter comes with Elvis, who is younger than him,
once or twice a week during the summer.
He drives a 1980’s Toyota pick-up truck.
On the second week of September he comes back
to close the pool for winter.
It is in the fall when I say goodbye, I bow my head and smile,
I would like to tell him how much I respect him,
how his gait made me write this poem,
how I see all  the Walters of the world in his face,
how much I hate inequality, how much I hate uniforms,
how I wish he wasn’t just another link in this furious capitalist world,
but I say nothing.
I keep my thoughts to myself, I keep these definitions in my head,
I repeat to myself that he is a human, and not just a wage laborer, or a means of production.

Before Walter leaves for good, before next summer comes,
he enters the house, takes off his hat, puts it in between his hands,
and asks my boyfriend if he can pick a pear from the tree
(a pear, singular, oh please Walter take the whole tree,
take the whole land if you wish, I want you to be happy).

CR- VocalesV

domingo, 1 de octubre de 2017

Fragment "Black seed" CR VocalesV

He asked me if I had been with a black man before.
- I don’t understand your question.
Have you ever been with a black man before?
- You mean darker than me?


Jennifer Givhan, for the Adroit Journal’s Tips for Young Writers

But wherever you are and whether you’re sunbathing on the sidelines or treading water or marathon swimming in the deep and nearly drowning—if you’re a poet, declare yourself so. The accolades will mean naught when you’re writing your own survival. The work is the water and the lifeboat. The work is everything.

-Jennifer Givhan

Mujer saliendo del psicoanalista - Remedios Varo

Remedios y yo tenemos a Jung en común.

Drop it
Into the well.
One item lighter
and so on...

CR -

Robin Coste Lewis - "Plantation"

I wondered if you thought we were lost.
We weren’t lost.  We were loss.
And meanwhile, all I could think
about was the innumerable ways
I would’ve loved to have eaten you.  How
being devoured can make one cry.

- Robin Coste Lewis

jueves, 21 de septiembre de 2017

The New Ash on the Roof of Our Building, by Taylor Mali (From his book The Whetting Stone)

Taylor Mali

Haunted is an apartment where a woman lived.
Someone like your wife, or soon-to-have-been-ex-wife.
Do people even say such things?

Haunted is an apartment where a woman died.
Except instead of the apartment,
it’s the sidewalk outside six floors below,

the place where, later, candles and flowers
bloomed into a shrine of glitter and photographs,
pretty, colored stones, and a carved wooden box.

We think of the dead as faded floating versions
of who they were in life –same grief, same need,
ghostly, doleful, disconsolate transparency,

except wearing sheets like gods, wraiths, or Romans –
maybe even Roman gods –revenants.
Do people even say such things?

I commit this notion to the earth with all the dead
flowers, pictures of you, haunted stones, and guilt.
I bury the carved wooden box like ashes.

Once, I planted a flower in an open field
not far from my own grave, haunted,
except instead of a flower, it was a tree.

And instead of an open field,
it was the rooftop of our building.
And instead of my grave, it was yours.

- Taylor Mali

martes, 12 de septiembre de 2017

Like Us (Poem from her book New American Best Friend)

Hilda Doolittle 

And we grew up and hardly mentioned
who the first kiss really was –a girl like us,
still sticky with moisturizer we’d shared in the bathroom.
-Marie Howe, Practicing

I had perfected the story before telling it –
rehearsed it during imagined interviews
in the shower – it was 2004 and his name
was Noah, my best friend since grade
school, we wanted the first kiss to be a safe bet,
the kind we could feel good about telling
our kids but didn’t end in heartbreak or sex.
I liked this small pill of a story,
how it made my life bite-sized
and interesting but still, there
was always Margot
how her spit was tacky and
harsh from gummy new growth
how I was the boy because I liked
my sneakers and got my hair cut
at the barbershop, how we
confessed to each other the places
we had rubbed our crotches against:
arms of recliners, spoons, the seams
of denim and now, each other’s
thighs, sometimes in our swimsuits,
jumped in the river just so we’d have
an excuse to wear them, an excuse
to shower together, change together,
linger when the other one peeled
the one piece down their damp torso
and how we both felt bad about
the game so we did it on the pull-out
bed, that way, when we were finished
slamming our tiny, moth bodies
against the porch lights of each other,
we could tuck the cot away and
the bedroom would go back to
the way it was before –
Curly-sue, nail polish, pastel coiled
phone cord, strawberry milkshake
designed by her mother to ensure she would
grow up the kind of girl who cries
when the boy does not love her –
in an instant.

- Olivia Gatwood (United States)

Six Stories by Taylor Mali (from the Chapbook The Whetting Stone)

Rattle Magazine

Stained glass windows were measured in stories;
the taller the window, the more stories it could tell.
-Art Spiegelman

Years ago, on a Monday morning, my wife,
dressed for work in a new suit and elegant shoes,
stepped outside the window and fell to her death
six stories below.

But I wonder what the stories were.

Perhaps the first is the one about the tattoo on her father’s arm,
the dark number he never spoke of.

In the second her mother calls her a whore–
Madonna and child– before she has ever been kissed.

In the third she is told that her dog, who was killed by the vet
mercifully, ran away while she was at summer camp,
and she cries because she thinks he got lost trying to find her.

I fail her again and again in the fourth story
until death do us part.

In the fifth, she is trying to reach God, any god,
but is lost and will not ask for help.

And in the last story, she stands weeping in a green field
made of wine bottle glass. And what appear to be her tears –
the only unstained crystals in the window –are actually just cracks in the glass where the tears once were, the brilliant
sparkling effect being nothing more than sunlight.

-Taylor Mali (New York, United States -1965)

lunes, 4 de septiembre de 2017

Black Birds, CR - Vocalesv

Gianni Passeretti

Oh, then we got all nervous, baby, I don't have the heart like you.
-The Tallest Man on Earth

Sometimes black birds fly in the ceiling.

Windows opened, birds dancing inside
curtains blowing in the wind.

First we moaned, then we yelled,
and then silence covered our faces
like a cheap burial shroud.

I will never forget those slow dances in your kitchen.

And those early mornings when I used to think:
Here I’ll stay, here I’ll stay.


martes, 29 de agosto de 2017

Quote of Walter Benjamin Quoting Breton or one of the most wonderful things I have read this year

Image and language take precedence. Breton notes: “Quietly, I want to pass where no one yet has passed, quietly! – After you, dearest language.” Language takes precedence. Not only before meaning. Also before the self. 

-Walter Benjamin

Poem to my head in the fridge, CR - VocalesV

I have matured,

Enough to understand, enough to underestimate, enough to live with sadness

Without feeling displaced.

I have matured,

Little things now make me cry,

Like going to the MoMA and crying in front of a Rothko, just because it’s beautiful.

I have learned to appreciate beauty for what it is,

Nothing mundane, but transcendental

That cannot be found in humans.

I have learned to understand rejection

And what it means to my own limitations and capacities,

I have learned to smile every time someone says “no.”

Life is watching a three-hour film by Ceylan without falling sleep

And road trips with healthy snacks and sex in the car,

And lifting heavy things every time madness knocks at the door.

Life is visiting the independent bookshops in Brooklyn

And have funny conversations with the hipsters inside,

And walking the streets of New York City with heavy bags and with him by my side.

Life is watching him flirting with someone he likes

And imagining how their story would have turned out,

And feeling hopeless.

Life is a trip on a train listening to the Tallest Man on Earth

Thinking of how many people in the car have battled an opioid addiction

While we cross the American East Coast.

I have matured,

And I still don’t know what to make of so much growing,

I could have killed myself, but chose to grow my bush instead.

Now, I only let go when it feels like I’m stealing,

And I look at people straight in the eye and say “I don’t like you,”

And I have developed this hideous idea of putting my head in the fridge every time I have an existential crisis.

I have found my identity in the lack of labels,

I love men, I love women, I am from the South and the North, I’m a liberal

I am Westerner, and from the Third World, I’m a lawyer, and a poet, and an animal lover, and a hater of humans.

I have matured,

I have learned to love quieter and to build cities in his body

While we travel around little nowhere towns.

One leg on the glove compartment, bare feet, red lips,

I feel like Lolita without the incestuous step-father,

And summer is ending, and I close my eyes, and in winter I would have survived yet another year.

I have matured,

The birds sing and for a moment I could swear

They are calling my name.

CR - VocalesV

jueves, 13 de julio de 2017

Sara (I), CR VocalesV

The flies pass through your body like sharp knives
your stiff hands try to guess the future with their palms facing the sky
we have paid a high price for our inconsequence.
I tilt my head to the side and I look at you from this twisted perspective,
Hey love, wake up.

A year ago, Sara married us
secretly in the Granary Burying Ground
in front of Samuel Adams’ grave.
After we kissed and Sara applauded,
I took her place and married you both.
After you kissed and I applauded and smiled,
You married Sara and I.
After that, we walked back with the rain and ate
ice cream to celebrate.

We spent our fake honeymoon between Salem and Cape cod,
the three of us cuddling in a double bed,
naked, listening to Waits and Dylan.

The two of you with yellow smoke by the window;
you would lick her nipples and she would kiss you,

while I fed the cats.

Who knows who had the right answers those days,
the truth is, we loved making love under the puritan sky
of Massachusetts after watching the Handmaids Tale on your laptop.

We made fun of traditions licking Sara’s clit,
and she fought for her place
in this world with the two of us by her side.

She would cross the room with her pale skin and slender body
knowing she had our attention, and then she would sit in the corner where the cats slept
and open her legs for us to see the beginning and the end of our story,
she opened her legs and our humanity, but we were the placeholders of nothingness.

When Sara said she was moving to Portland we didn’t know what to say,
she was expecting us to move there, we were expecting her to stay.
Terrible triad of indecisions.
From then on, we perceived daylight through shadows,
but we should have fought for our room on the floor, instead.

Now, we google the weather in Portland to imagine what she’s wearing,
she does the same with us, but feels betrayed.

I lie next to your body and you open your eyes
death or dishonor, that’s what I read in them.

We should fly to Portland I tell you,
and an immense sadness fills the room.
To lose the past is a tragedy.
You'll see, we will taste her again
and we'll taste ashes.

CR - VocalesV

miércoles, 12 de julio de 2017

Literature Suspends Death, Hélène Cixous

The process of literature doesn’t make one happy, it suspends death — as long as it manifests itself. This is what Blanchot calls the “arrêt de mort”. It stops death with life. Similarly, when you’re dreaming, all pain is suspended. It’s waiting for you. Similarly, when you wake up from literature, the pain is waiting for you.     

- Hélène Cixous

martes, 11 de julio de 2017

Fragment of Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman (Via Clementine van Rodics)


The traumatic event challenges an ordinary person to become a theologian, a philosopher, and a jurist. The survivor is called upon to articulate the values and beliefs that she once held and that the trauma destroyed. She stands mute before the emptiness of evil, feeling the insufficiency of any known system of explanation. Survivors of atrocity of every age and every culture come to a point in their testimony where all questions are reduced to one, spoken more in bewilderment than in outrage: Why?

-Judith Herman

domingo, 9 de julio de 2017

Small Murders by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Richard Avedon 1969

When Cleopatra received Antony
on her cedarwood ship,
she made sure he would smell her
in advance across the sea:
perfumed sails, nets sagging with rosehips
and crocus draped over her bed,
her feet and hands rubbed in almond oil,
cinnamon, and henna.

I knew I had you when you told me

you could not live without my scent,
brought pink bottles of it,
creamy lotions, a tiny vial of 
drop lasted all day.
They say Napoleon told Josephine
not to bathe for two weeks
so he could savor her raw scent,
but hardly any mention is ever
made of their love of violets.
Her signature fragrance: a special blend

of these crushed purple blooms for wrist,
cleavage, earlobe.
Some expected to discover a valuable
painting inside
the locket around Napoleon’s neck when he died,
but found
a powder of violet petals from his wife’s
grave instead. And just
yesterday, a new boy leaned in close to whisper
that he loved

the smell of my perfume, the one you
handpicked years ago.
I could tell he wanted to kiss me, his breath
heavy and slow
against my neck. My face blue from
the movie screen—
I said nothing, only sat up and stared straight ahead. But
by evening’s end, I let him have it: twenty-
seven kisses

on my neck, twenty-seven small murders of
you. And the count
is correct, I know—each sweet press one
less number to weigh
heavy in the next boy’s cupped hands.
Your mark on me washed
away with each kiss. The last one so cold,
so filled with mist
and tiny daggers, I already smelled
the blood on my hands

- Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Portland, CR

Me siento en la sala de espera y olvido mi idioma,
tengo un enjambre de palabras en mi estómago
que no encuentra salida hacia mi boca,
a veces el sufrimiento es no saber decir lo que se quiere.

En mis huesos hay dos pares de dioses
que gritan plegarias sintoístas
a hombres muertos.
Insisten en salvarlos.
                         Insisten en salvarme.

Tienes hilos de suturas en el alma,
pero sigues caminando por el mundo
como un hombre libre.
La miseria es tan solo aproximada
a la cantidad de esfuerzo hecho
por parecer feliz.

Memorias Belladonna
que besan el suelo que piso,
me arrodillo ante ellas
porque el pasado merece la fe que le di
cuando era futuro.

Pero ahora he aprendido a decir adiós.
Ya vendrán otras memorias que adorar.

Luego, sus ojos verdes se cruzan con los míos,
hay un campo santo en cada una de las aberturas
que toca,
y una película de Murnau llena el espacio.

Los cuerpos que tocamos en Portland
terminarán adornando nuestros días.
Alis volat propriis”.

- CR VocalesV

Fragmento de "TheHeart's Graveyard Shift" de Yusef Komunyakaa

Between loves I could stand all day
at a window watching honeysuckle open
as I make love to the ghosts
smuggled inside my head

- Yusef Komunyakaa

Entre amores podía quedarme todo el día
en una ventana mirando las madreselvas abrirse
mientras le hago el amor a los fantasmas
que trafican en mi cabeza.
-Yusef Komunyakaa

lunes, 19 de junio de 2017

Aseem Kaul (trad.) (Forthcoming Rattle Mag.)


“La locura”, escribe Ghalib, “siempre tiene sus razones;
Seguramente existe algo que el velo intenta proteger”
Y yo pienso en todos estos a
ños que hemos pasado
escuchado estos ghazals, los versos
cayendo de nuestros labios como pedazos de cristales exquisitos
de marcos de ventanas rotos;
moldeando nuestras bocas a su tristeza
desabrochando nuestros cuellos para que su voz manchara
el irritado lenguaje de nuestras canciones.
¿De qué nos hemos estado escondiendo?
qué deseo encontramos dentro
que disfrazamos con las ropas de un hombre muerto.

-Aseem Kaul


Ganso Canadiense, CR VocalesV


Quién soy sino una sombra
identificada por 300 mg de
quelque chose
un ganso dormido, gritando, ¡estuve aquí! ¡Estuve aquí!
y volando lejos, otra vez,
porque siempre es invierno donde sea que voy
y en cualquier época del año.
Salí de mi historia de la misma forma en la que entré:
Estrangulándome, envenenándome, saltando desde ventanas ajenas.

¿Qué significa que algo te importe?
Además de mirar a tu herida sangrante
y sentir asco.

Hoy, alguien arrolló a una ardilla en la carretera,
mientras yo caminaba a la oficina de correos,
cerca de Ontario Lake
-nunca me tomes en serio con las direcciones.-
La ardilla murió, y yo quedé angustiada a su lado.
La tomé entre mis manos entonando daimoku.
Era toda desfiguración y frivolidad,
fue la primera vez que estuve tan expuesta a las entrañas.
Su nariz estaba intacta.

Solo permíteme morir como ella alguna vez.

No debería escribir sobre estas cosas.

Por un tiempo he tenido miedo de escribir mis poemas,
siempre tienden a repetirse a sí mismos en la vida real,
con tal fuerza,
que termino rezándole a dioses antiguos por piedad,
vaya variante estética para mi nueva vida suburbial.

Abajo en Massachusetts, una tal Michelle ha sido condenada
por incitar a su novio depresivo a suicidarse.
Cautivada, leo las noticias, ¿Qué sintió ella?
Luego de ordenarle que volviera a su camioneta
estacionada en un Kmart,
y le exigió prender el gas y esperar a la muerte.
¿Qué sintió una vez que su último mensaje no obtuvo respuesta?

Soy una millenial, y si,
todos estamos locos.

CR VocalesV

Ghalib by Aseem Kaul (Fragment)

Munch -Two women on the shore

"Madness”, Ghalib writes, “is never without its reasons;
surely there is something that the veil is meant to protect”
And I think of all the years we have spent
listening to these ghazals, the verses
falling from our lips like pieces of exquisite glass
from broken window frames;
shaping our mouths to his sadness,
unbuttoning our collars to let his words stain
the rubbed language of our songs.
What have we been hiding from,
my friend? What longing is this inside us
that we disguise in a dead man’s clothes

-Aseem Kaul

viernes, 16 de junio de 2017

Joan Didion "Goodbye to all that"

Joan Didion

"All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in the afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."

Joan Didion  

Canada Goose, CR VocalesV

Grace Cob

Who am I but a shadow
identified by 300 mg of
quelque chose
a sleeping goose, yelling I was here, I was here
and flying away, yet again,
because it is always winter wherever I go
at any time of the year.
I exited my story, in the same way I entered it:
strangling myself, poisoning my lips, jumping from strangers’ windows.

What does it mean to care?
Beside looking at your bleeding wound
and feel disgusted.

Someone hit a squirrel on the road today,
while I walked to send some mail
near Ontario Lake,
- do not ever take me seriously with directions -
The squirrel died, and I was left in total angst by her side
I took her with my bare hands while chanting daimoku
she was all disfiguration and shallowness,
it was the first time I felt so exposed to the real meaning of guts.
Her nose was yet intact.

Just allow me to die like her someday.
I should not write such dark things.

For a while I’ve been afraid of writing poems,
since they always tend to repeat themselves in real life
with such an unimaginable force,
that I end up praying to old gods for mercy,
what a key variation to my new suburban life.

Down in Massachusetts a girl named Michelle has been convicted
for encouraging her mentally ill boyfriend to kill himself,
mesmerized I watched the news, what did she feel?
After ordering him to get back in his truck
that was parked at a Kmart,
and commanded him to turn on the gas
and wait for death to come.
What did she feel once her last message received no answer?

Crazy millennials,
I’m a millennial and yes,
we are all crazy.

CR VocalesV

domingo, 23 de abril de 2017

viernes, 21 de abril de 2017

A Squirrel on the tree, CR VocalesV

Marina Abramovic, Green Dragon (1989)

There are two worlds running parallel in my veins.
In the first one I’m alive,
I listen to Tom Waits while drinking Mate
and keep on insisting on writing the poems that no one cares to read
or publish.
And I’m happy, I mean, I have intense intervals of happiness,
before sadness strikes again like a jealous lover.
I read with him by my side, I hug him,
and we make love, like two lascivious aliens.
Some days we have casual guests
and we enjoy seducing them together and buy them some wine
before going to bed in a collective hug.

In the second world
I’m dead.
I hung myself from a tube in the ceiling
and they only found me three days later.
I still had my shoes on, and an open book on my bed.
I left a note with all my passwords where I asked
to be forgotten.
The last thing I saw before leaving for good
was the face of a squirrel on the tree, right in front of my window,
her eyes were full of questions that I just couldn’t answer.

And in between these two realities:
the powerful force of love,
and an everlasting grief.

- CR VocalesV

Fragment of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Lucy Moorehead

"Love. Quite impossible for me, without emotional connotations. (Love. But what is love?) Not impossible for them, or anyhow they build the word love after the fact of sex. That’s all. I think it has something to do with a loneliness of the skin, a primitive sense of the terrible solitude of being a human; one needs the close physical contact, as one needs fire. Something like that. I wish I were a nymphomaniac, so much easier. Instead am fastidious and faithful. Awful."

-Martha Gellhorn

Martha Gellhorn on Sex

"If I practiced sex out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it ... seemed a defeat. I accompanied men and was accompanied in action, in the extrovert part of life; I plunged into that ... but not sex; that seemed to be their delight, and all I got was a pleasure of being wanted, I suppose, and the tenderness (not nearly enough) that a man gives when he is satisfied. I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents."

Fragments of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Bill Bufford

"I was incoherent with rage. Days have passed and now I am coherent with rage. I think in fact that you have become a very shady character, glitzy-shady. I will not cut you dead in the street but I will never again have anything to do with you."

-Martha Gellhorn

martes, 18 de abril de 2017

Anchorage (Trad. Espanol) CR VocalesV

Soy resistente
he tocado las aguas frías de Anchorage
con mi cuerpo desnudo
He matado mi alma con mis manos
y he besado a los hombres y mujeres de mi vida
antes de abandonarlos.

Soy resistente
he sobrevivido al suicidio leyendo Foucault,
y el lenguaje es mi nuevo super poder.
He forzado a mi lengua a no moverse por días
y me he resignado al destino
sentada en el parque,
como si la contemplación fuera otra forma
de silenciar los gritos.

Estoy enfurecida
odio la pulcritud de tus manos
cuando me estrangulas y me hablas de amor.
Nuestros cuerpos se arrodillan ante nosotros
para recordarnos que no hay dioses de reemplazo
¿Qué tanto te asusta eso?

Es absurdo creer que el tiempo curara nuestra pena
porque lo poco que sabemos se mide en días de dolor
y resistencia, y un profundo respeto por la urgencia
de las bestias lamiendo nuestras pieles.

Inclinas tu cabeza ante mí
y yo me pongo de rodillas ante ti
nuestra señal de respeto mutuo
y el recordatorio que
hemos intercambiado sangre
y muertes
y nos hemos transformado en algo
aún más hambriento y violento
con una vida aparte
y una inevitable fragilidad humana.

Anchorage, CR VocalesV

I’m resistant
I have touched the cold waters of Anchorage
with my naked body
I have killed my soul with my bare hands
and I have kissed the men and women
of my life, before abandoning them.

I’m resistant
I survived suicide by reading Foucault,
and language is now my new superpower.
I forced my tongue to stop moving for days
and I resigned myself to fate,
sitting on a bench at the park
as if contemplation was another form of silence.

I am enraged
I hate the cleanliness of your hands
when you strangle me and talk to me about love.
Our bodies kneel before us to remind us
that there are no other gods but us
how scary is that?

It is absurd to believe that time will heal our sorrows
for the little we know can be measured in days of pain
and resilience, and a profound respect for the urgency
of the beasts licking our skins.

You bow your head before me
and I go down on you
our sign of mutual respect
and a reminder that
we have exchanged blood
and deaths
and we grew into something hungrier
with a life of its own
and an inevitable human frailty.

domingo, 26 de marzo de 2017

Minsk, CR-VocalesV


Era verano y estábamos sentados en el suelo
al borde de un puente abandonado
cerca de Minsk.
Allí me hablaste de tu amante bielorrusa,
una rubia preciosa, de piernas perfectas,
forjadas, de pli
é en pli
é,  con años de ballet.
Una mujer hermosa pero de corazón frágil.

Yo te escuchaba en silencio, hacía frío,
balanceaba mis pies sobre el Svislach
tú hablabas con franqueza.

La viste unas dos veces entre casa de amigos,
un día te invitó a su piso
a bañarte en su bañera
luego de que comentaras cuánto te gustaba.

Y como en la vida nunca hay demasiado tiempo,
olvidaste su oferta, hasta que llegó el invierno
y la llamaste, y te dijo que fueras que había agua caliente
y asististe al encuentro de una historia que terminaba
luego de un par de días.

Fuiste pudoroso y cerraste la puerta antes de desvestirte,
debió ella tocarla y preguntar si necesitabas algo,
tu dijiste que no,
que ya tenías toalla.

Allí estallé en risas, y me toqué el estómago y el pecho
para poder respirar. Tú también reíste. Para ese
entonces en tu historia, ya habías salido del baño
y la masturbabas detrás del sofá.

Le abriste el pantalón y moviste su ropa interior
para tener espacio con tus dedos,
movías tu dedo índice y el del medio
de un lado a otro, de arriba abajo
y ella comenzaba a moverse y a respirar más rápido.
Y viste al orgasmo en sus ojos azules
y terminaste con la determinación de quien busca
salvarse de una huida.

No duraron mucho,
pero ahora estamos en Minsk y la recuerdas
su padre fue un desaparecido de la dictadura
y a ella la recuerdas porque no estás con ella.
Su cabellera larga, sus ojos tristes, sus labios gruesos,
sus intenciones precisas, sus pocas palabras,
sus muchos intentos, su decepción cuando te fuiste.

No puedes separar al dolor del lenguaje,
como cuando te estrangulo y te pido que
me folles luego de contarme tus historias.
Es cierto, los hombres son atractivos
gracias a las mujeres hermosas
que estuvieron con ellos.

El viento nos ahuyenta y yo comienzo a sangrar,
ves la sangre que recorre mis piernas,
yo me levanto el vestido y te obligo a contar
las gotas que logran llegar a mis pies.

La diosa sangra frente al hombre pagano
y obliga a que le rece.