— an Octavio Paz cento
there are no dead, there is only death, our mother
she who was buried with open eyes
a lugubrious, lascivious clatter of heels
the flash of a skirt
a riddle shaped like an hourglass
a fluttering of opaque conjurations
a marching battalion of sparks
the sun's dagger dances on your warrior breast
flows through your shape, if fire is water
you are a diaphanous drop
more real than the body you inhabit
your body is the trace of your body
the fig tree was a goddess, the mother
the green hug of innumerable limbs
burnt by autumn, transfigured by autumn's light
it rises through diaphanous spaces
chases ghosts, stalks reflections
you light up within, you are blind stone
you kneading trough of bones
who flows through the whiskers of autumn
hands of rain darkened by birds, holiness
at the edge of a precipice of looks
I hear you throb in the shadow
a body caressing itself, tearing itself apart
death is the mother of forms
is expansion, the wave that stretches & breaks
the feminine mist of plants
not planet & not jewel but fruit
mother of the nomadic tribes, orphan
breasts of wine & belly of bread
delta of arms of desire, water of truth
on a bed of vertigo, truth of water
oven where the dead burn & the living bake
love letter with spelling mistakes
always torn from itself, to speak
while others work is to polish bones
a comb is a harp strummed by the glance
of a little girl born dumb
my aunt taught me to see with my eyes closed
to see within & through the wall
thought phallus & word womb
language is atonement
an appeasement of the speechless
you are naked like a syllable
like the wine in the glass pitcher
a warm rain of glances, your blouse
of the moon an arm of the sea
the river of language a pause of light
fountain in the night, plunging white
ideas ate the deities, the deities
became ideas, the feminine void
we were content with noise
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