are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adored faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloodstained blows are the crackling of
bread burning us at the oven door.
And man … Poor … poor! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us;
turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his look.
There are blows in life, so powerful … I don’t know!
[CE]
________________
THE SPIDER
It is an enormous spider that now cannot move;
a colorless spider, whose body,
a head and an abdomen, bleeds.
Today I watched it up close. With what effort
toward every side
it extended its innumerable legs.
And I have thought about its invisible eyes,
the spider’s fatal pilots.
It is a spider that tremored caught
on the edge of a rock;
abdomen on one side,
head on the other.
With so many legs the poor thing, and still unable
to free itself. And, on seeing it
confounded by its fix
today, I have felt such sorrow for that traveler.
It is an enormous spider, impeded by
its abdomen from following its head.
And I have thought about its eyes
and about its numerous legs …
And I have felt such sorrow for that traveler!
[CE]
________________
THE POET TO HIS LOVER
My love, on this night you have been crucified on
the two curved beams of my kiss;
your torment has told me that Jesus wept,
that there is a goodfriday sweeter than that kiss.
On this strange night when you looked at me so,
Death was happy and sang in his bone.
On this September night my second fall
and the most human kiss have been presided over.
My love, we two will die together, close together;
our sublime bitterness will slowly dry up;
and our defunct lips will have touched in shadow.
There will be no more reproach in your holy eyes;
nor will I offend you ever again. In one grave
we two will sleep, as two siblings.
[CE]
________________
DREGS
This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I
have no desire to live, my heart.
This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be?
Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman.
This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice over her poppy,
stronger than her “Don’t be this way!”
My violent black flowers; and the barbaric
and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance.
And the silence of her dignity
with burning holy oils will put an end to it.
So this afternoon, as never before, I am
with this owl, with this heart.
Other women go by; and seeing me so sad,
they take on a bit of you
in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse.
This afternoon it is raining, raining hard. And I
have no desire to live, my heart!
[CE]
________________
THE BLACK CUP
Night is a cup of evil. Shrilly a police
whistle pierces it, like a vibrating pin.
Listen, bitch, how come if you are gone now
the flicker is still black and still makes me burn?
The Earth has coffinesque edges in the dark.
Listen, bitch, don’t come back.
My flesh swims, swims
in the cup of darkness still aching me;
my flesh swims in her,
in the marshy heart of woman.
Astral ember … I have felt
dry scrapes of clay
fall upon my diaphanous lotus.
Ah, woman! Flesh formed of instinct
exists because of you. Ah, woman!
That is why—oh, black chalice! even after you left
I am choking on dust,
and more urges to drink paw at my flesh!
[CE]
________________
