Escribo para dibujar flores en las paredes
que nunca serán leídas
porque los poemas
no deben leerse en voz alta
sino en el susurro de los orgasmos,
en la brizna,
en el abandono de iglesias
que no reconocen a Jazz Gillum
o las azucenas de Pizarnik,
mucho menos margaritas
en las que dibujé un colibrí bajo tu vientre.
Escribo
en el blues de los suicidas
y un café derramado sobre tus senos
para no mutilar el sabor
de los girasoles.
I write to draw flowers on the walls
that will never be read
because poems
should not be read aloud
but in the whisper of orgasms,
in the blade of grass,
in the abandonment of churches
that do not recognize Jazz Gillum
or Pizarnik’s lilies,
much less the daisies
on which I drew a hummingbird beneath your belly.
I write
in the blues of the suicidal
and a coffee spilled upon your breasts
so as not to mutilate the flavor
of the sunflowers.
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