Premonition
They are not accident the mutilated hills
or this sea entry like a disquieting stained glass
of the strangled night
it is the sign of death that turns waters dark
and stops their dialectical mission of being always different
another
nothing breathes anymore in this city {
neither the palm trees of the marble Necropolis
nor the restless water hyacinths of the dry river
we wait for the miracle of rain with a cracked tongue
we dread our death by drought
ironic end for the inhabitants of a port.
To swim we need faith and mighty arms
it is not about floating although it is possible to levitate in the waters
the idea is to go against the tide and sort the inordinate force of nature
of a swamp city
A woman advances on the waters with the precision of a shark
to arrive to the future
island
climbs the waterfalls and retreats toward the future
combusts over the waters
the act is still unnamable
she will be in charge of writing it.
The future: mutilated hills
not a Ceibo survives
sinister spectacle of reconstruction and rubble
The gelded ridges creak the estuaries grow and the water always the water ready to cover us with
its oblivion
Melancholy spreads over the asphalt.
Premature Burial
I already told you to burn me like a Viking. Just wait for the fire to disintegrate
my flesh and for the ashes to fall into the asphalt
incandescent vestiges of memory.
I would have left long ago. Do not think of me.
Why does it matter that my skin melts with the flames?
I have written down my funeral wishes and don’t intend to waver with emergency measures
because we come from dust and to dust we will return even if it is a lovesick
and dissident dust.
I don’t want music or ceremonies.
Just wish me a light journey and go back to your homes, close those doors tightly, lest some
infectious particles slip through the cracks.
And when meetings take hold of your lives again say my full name many times.
Maybe that will awaken my tongue which in steel drowsiness will try to enunciate the other
names.
I already told you to burn me like a Viking. I don’t need a plastic bag, or a pressed cardboard
coffin.
My dignity has never had a price tag{
Abandoned in this despotic quarantine
A body can do nothing
But if you do not want to feel the smell of my combusted flesh you should follow the second
instruction:
Embalming is an art with which I sympathize.
Nocturnal II
I walk among the night shadows; it barely rains,
and the wind brings the smells of wet soil.
At this hour the stars speculate
Which would be the glow that wanes first?
and the tired dragonflies circle around
and a few dry leaves fall
and darkness rocks the bed that holds me
One pill is not enough. But later,
dragons lighten up
leave behind a millenary dream
combust their entrails
brighten this gloom and unfurl their wings.
In silence the flames that slash the night burst
The slumber propagates with the fire.
The Birds
The guaraguao moves through the blue skies and observes
it is not the only one in this carrion dance
the smell of flesh has risen
she lies under the rusty tin roofs
cradles the cry
the lime gives shelter
it’s inevitable to see death
to sleep with her with a dwindled heart
and the estuary swirled by the tide marking the rhythm of the bodies’ smells
the guaraguaos spread their wings and circle
the ritual is old
three fires
the yellow fever
the bat flu
a city can die so many deaths
corpses light up the home fire
and we cling to them.
Grandparents
They abandon their tombs like disoriented birds
a breath that is mine has prepared them for the exodus
and one of them does not know his son is dead,
the other one thinks of the library, now the memory’s skeleton
