Memorándum
No te quiero poeta. Te quiero de carne y hueso. Cerca. AsÃ, a secas. No te quiero poeta. Te quiero sin palabras. Ellas surcan las sienes de mis sueños para encender mis mares. No las quiero. Quiero en cambio tu carne. Sudarte. Entiéndelo, poeta. Sonetos surcan la piel de las esperas. Versos me velan. Coplas por copa de tu vino diera en esta hora ciega. De tus estrofas mi vida brota, mordida al ritmo de tu cintura y un vendaval preñado de mis urgencias arremete tu rima insalvable, a no ser por las concavidades que sólo se repiten entretejiendo piernas.
Anda, pirata de palabras… metaforiza, diseccióname, desentierra tesoros deliberadamente geografiados en lenguas de fuego desde mis ojos, cada vez que te desnudo, sin que tú lo presientas… Retruécate en mi cuello, repÃtete, que no hay academia ni academistas oteando el elixir de tu ortografÃa cavernaria. En cambio, papiro, piedra, arena de mil senderos soy para la eternidad del poema que has de escribir en mÃ. No mañana. No más tarde. Ahora mismo y aquÃ. ¡En medio del camino!
Memorandum
I don’t want you poet. I want you flesh and bone. Nearby. That’s it, straight out. I don’t want you poet. I want you without words. They harrow the temples of my dreams to ignite my seas. I don’t want them. What I do want is your flesh. To sweat you. Understand it, poet. Sonnets plow the skin of waiting. Verses watch me. I would give up stanza after stanza of your wine at this blind hor. My life is bursting with your strophes, bitten to the rhythm of your waist, and a storm pregnant with my urgencies would strike out against your insuperable rhyme, were it not for the concavities repeated only by the intertwining of legs.
Go on, word-pirate… metaphorize, dissect me, disinter treasures deliberately geographized with tongues of fire from my eyes, each time I undress you without your knowledge…pun yourself on my throat, repeat yourself, since there’s no academy or academists sniffing at the elixir of your caveman handwriting. On the other hand, I am papyrus, stone, sand from a thousand roads, for the eternal life of the poem that you are to write on me. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right now, right here. In the middle of the road!
Translated by Rhina P. Espaillat.