en el estilo Mexicano
…and just before the slope
down to where the sons of the man
who built our house
built our very own
the cesspool would overflow
a smaller pond of shit,
and how the yard would reek;
you say it came to you
at the threshold of the creek,
the clear prescience
of your death inside you–
and here I am
remembering our overflowing
shit like a pond
beside the pond where
the solitary great blue heron
would come to eat.
this wind reminds me
of you, though
truth be told it only
on my recent home-
sickness for you;
and I can’t help
but note the timeliness
of this wind,
and how on early evenings
(just like this one)
with the sun and the wind
on your cobblestone streets
as I’d climb them
to my hillside home;
and I can’t help
but note my bed sheets
on the line and flapping
in this late summer wind-
it’s almost too much,
I almost can’t take it:
if I close my eyes
it’s like I might just
I have been thinking about death since I met you.
But what I have in mind is nothing like
common sorrow. It’s more like a certainty
of the totality of my days in this
world where I’ve been able to find you.
Suddenly I have all the impatience of everyone
who loved and loves, the unshareable urgency
of those in love. I don’t want geography
but love—it is the only thing my heart knows.
In my life there is no room for this excess of life.
It would be better to tell you I meditate on things
(borders and distances) in the proper terms
of resurrection, when we will rise
over the fixed locations of time and space,
independent of the sea that separates us.
The perfect moment I dream of is the embrace,
unrushed, the kisses that have remained unkissed.
I dream that your body lives next to my body
and I wait for the morning when there will be no limits.
-juan antonio gonzalez iglesias