I say that for several centuries
it shouldn't be otherwise
because my tongue would know
my tongue accustomed to the gray rubbing of crustaceans
the unholy palate where the corpses that have been rescued lie down
from the twists of time,
your blood smells like a closed cinema gate
your blood stays on my hands like
ink of a squid possessed by lust,
you come, I don't know, from the celestial cohorts
of the Renaissance palaces
and from the blue broth where the Huns cooked the
misshapen head of kings
they submitted the name of their people
to the name of Attila,
one day the stupid blind worms of
death will stop in the milk of
your eyes to drink the sun as if
they licked a cistern,
but not this afternoon
Not this terrible moment when I step on your body
feeling on my feet
the fluttering of your bones, you will have
born before the flight of Aeneas to his
paradise and you will be born another thousand times
in other lands
in the midst of other wars
and your bedroom will be gold
or you will roll in the dust of a
orchard splashing fruits and insects
with the greedy honey that your entrails exude,
sonic woman, mouth of rue and nail,
you will have been born in a stable
in a synagogue
or in the most sordid inn of a coast
infected with leprosy and dew,
every man sought you in my own tongue
you have a unique name in each burp of
bearded man, here in these hands
I let a butterfly urinate and sing,
because your shoulders tend to bare
for a minotaur to howl against the
stone chewing its own tongue
raving to squeeze between his veins
the red reptile that sleeps curled up
in the bustling holes of your flesh.
Randomly throwing your tenderness
as if you were throwing a rope where
beats a slipknot.