Borzoi Reader

from “Erotic-Fugitive-Bliss”: Cavafy in Fragments/ An Erasure

And I shall not                fear my passions                like a coward. I shall                abandon my body

To its pleasure, to delight,                to the most                daring desire—                without any fear.

Like the heart of a seafarer:                Sunbeams, the sun,                the sea within.                The air, the apparitions

Of the night.                Nostalgia                for arriving. Affection                for what must disappear.

And I love                the liturgical presence                of our past, the years                walking

Slowly through the narrow woods,      the grand second, grander      than the first—                your stout sensuous mind

Wrapped so carefully                in green                silk                want:

The secret                sound                of approaching                events. Your zenith, at last,                in your path.

Go out now.                No longer brush aside                or fail to bow—                even later—                to the serious and sudden

Midnight hour                (with its exquisite music)                that your Fate                is giving you, finally,                now.

You                whom the gods found                always deserving,                move                with steadfast steps

My Library

My books remain on the shelves as I left them last year, but all the words have died. I search for my favorite book, Out of Place. I find it lying lonely in a drawer, next to the photo album and my old Nokia phone.

The pen inside the book is still intact, but some ink drops have leaked. Some words breathe its ink, the pen like a ventilator for a dozen patients:

Figs                for Dr. Bruno Ceolin

Some words trip me in my second tongue.

I say pepino—cucumber when I mean pimienta—pepper.

Confuse ginebra—gin, when I mean ginger—jengibre.

And when the acupuncturist tells me— El hígado enamorado quiere decir el cuerpo está sano. The liver in love means the body is healthy—

I mistake hígado—liver, for fig—higo.

I prefer my translation.

SELF-PORTRAIT : JUST MY IMAGINATION

Drowning on Crete

Before I died,

I was pulled out of the water.

It only took half a minute.

I wasn’t wearing anything.

I was five.

Bottles of soda must have fallen from the chaise.

But I heard nothing.

I was below the water

And earth, where boys die,

Not knowing where to go.

Nothing to do in the hidden rooms

But lie down and wait.

Light was coming through a ceiling.

What would rescue even look like?

Painted on the vase,

Dark orange on black,

My parents hold my small body.

Their tears are wet like my hair.

I swallow water.

The sun is strong,

The sea smells like men’s bodies.

I didn’t die

But for one moment

Vow

I love you; I don’t know how else to begin.

How we began, though, was almost as if it were already written. The details of how we arrived

at each other, to say I love you even as we fall asleep,

to let each other’s name be the first sound we utter every morning, can only be a gift of careful construction,

a design of an elsewhere where we were already together.

Saying nothing, you make me want to live more meaningfully. The world is so wild, beautiful,

and terrifying, and everywhere we turn, a new atrocity.

Then, I close my eyes and picture joy. Among things, there is this day. Among faces,

there is yours. And I am no longer afraid.

I watch you in your own, quiet moments, and I want this life. I want this life

to be longer. All I want is more time with you.

Sometime before the War Sometime before the War we were stole

It was New Orleans— The loud harbor Congo Square Like the sea we were stole

like a gnarled cut-­ down tree— yoked driven north

It was years before I were brought home

Taken torn we was always being born

from each other We are the other’s mother

From one another we ate

what the other did

As one we sang, we spake— She was the body I the soul Without one Perishes the whole

We each latched yoked so knew

when they said we were sold

that whoever claimed they owned me

was chained to us too

We was born blue beneath a Carolina sky

Where we will die

A horizon inside us

We are like the Carolinas, blue,

WITHOUT

The world will keep trudging through time without us

When we lift from the story contest to fly home

We will be as falling stars to those watching from the edge

Of grief and heartbreak

Maybe then we will see the design of the two-­ minded creature

And know why half the world fights righteously for greedy masters

And the other half is nailing it all back together

Through the smoke of cooking fires, lovers’ trysts, and endless

Human industry—Maybe

then, beloved rascal

We will find each other again in the timeless weave of breathing

We will sit under the trees in the shadow of earth sorrows

Things My Grandmother Said

In Defense of Obsession

I walk blocks in the wind thinking of you like a lion. And imagine your hand in my mouth.

poem I wrote after I told you about my joie de vivre

I’m sorry I never saw your play theatre is yelling at people to leave rooms and/or begging people to stay in rooms New York is cool because you get to wait in line to walk over a puddle

PARK AVENUE SOUTH

A Process of Wondering Which Begs Me to Question

coming back to poetry (or, trans—?)