martes, 22 de decembro de 2015

Cambodia

Taking Off My Clothes

I take off my shirt, I show you.
I shaved the hair out under my arms.
I roll up my pants, I scraped off the hair   
on my legs with a knife, getting white.


My hair is the color of chopped maples.   
My eyes dark as beans cooked in the south.   
(Coal fields in the moon on torn-up hills)
Skin polished as a Ming bowl
showing its blood cracks, its age, I have hundreds   
of names for the snow, for this, all of them quiet.
In the night I come to you and it seems a shame   
to waste my deepest shudders on a wall of a man.


You recognize strangers,
think you lived through destruction.
You can’t explain this night, my face, your memory.


You want to know what I know?   
Your own hands are lying

Carolyn Forché
from Gathering the Tribes

*

You kiss like a soldier, 

you move like a snake, 

in your marble body there´s nothing I can break.   

(...)  

Use, use me, make something pretty of me. 

Excuse this naked mess, 

I refuse to own myself under these present circumstances, 

take it as it is my dear friend

Rosenvinge 

 

 

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