Fruta

¡Amorrrr!

It does not matter

if your flesh devours my flesh,

if your blood, chemical blood,

cuts my fresh throat

and the canary of my ear.

I love you as I love

the poisoned branches that children

hide in the wide corduroy of the teacher’s suit.

I love you as I love

the multitude of crickets that knock on silver doors

in search of their long, half-eaten wings.

My love,

we all look for something.

But all we find is water sweetened

by the camel’s white torso,

a young boy who does not know the name of the turtle

and who, knowing only that he bleeds whenever he touches a carnation,

searches for terror in the old city of his dreams,

and we find, in the bright corners and in the pool of transparent shadows,

an old woman who refuses to weep with her eyes open.

The bed is a mouth of steel. Your thighs are tiny scales.

Your mouth is a school of persimmons. Your brows are my tears.

Your head is the silent cries of absinthe and the purple fingers of my forgotten hand.

The agony of your dark and worn forehead

is nothing like death.

Because the dead do not talk without the blood

of the dove that discovers the secrets of our wounds.

Because the dead must cut their throats

in order to decay in the pancreas of the duck.

Because the dead, worn by the silence of the bed

and tired from the movement of eyelids,

desperately think that the moon is an ant,

and the ant a pearl, and the pearl a naked tongue.

This is why it does not matter

if your blood is my blood.

Escalera Imposible

!Amorrrr!

I search for your little heart in the branches of laurel

and in the hunted fur of the deer.

And the perfume of your womb

sings in the courtyard of the moon.

In the dark corners of marble,

I can hear the weeping of white children

and a drum that pierces the impatient clouds.

Heads of silver.

Distant sound of my tiny glass.

Arms of nickel.

Dead profiles in the chirping

of the fine horses.

Death.

Mountains of silk frozen

in the bladder of the rainbow.

In the white and long towers,

I found your lips next to mine.

One of my eyes is tomorrow.

One of my hands is forever.

Without knowing why,

the neighbors,

with their throats cut

by the teeth of the alligator,

by whispers, by blood,

by violet branches,

take my love

from my veins.

Your bracelet,

with drops of gold,

touch my waist.

Your voice excites

the young child of my voice.

Your thighs,

what thighs so white and so quiet,

open the wide fan of my black song

and place a wounded lily on my ancient tongue.