Poesia kaiera
Amodiozko gutuna sutan den eraikinetik
Foxxy, ene kuttunetan kuttun,
kutxa batean nago,
gurea zen kutxa hartan,
alkandora zuriz eta entsalada berdez betetako hartantxe,
hozkailua gure kolpe goxoei kolpeka.
Gogoratzen nola janzten nituen filmak begietan,
nola arrautzak janzten zenituen zure tunelean?
Egun osoan jolasean ibili ohi ginen izara artean,
—izara artean, izara artean, baita bainuontzian ere!—
zoro-sukarrak jota.
Baina gaur su eman diot oheari
eta ke beroz betetzen ari da logela,
gutxi falta du hormak urtzen hasteko,
hortz zuri likatsua da hozkailua bera.
Maskara soinean idazten ditut azken hitzok,
eta zuretzat dira, hain zuzen; vodkaren eta tomateen txokoan
ipiniko ditut, hozkailuan,
beharbada iraungo dute hartara.
Zakurrak ez du iraungo, seguru. Orbanak eroriko zaizkio.
Gutun zaharrak erle beltz bakarrean desegingo dira.
Kamisoiak ari dira jada zirtzilatzen,
paper bihurtzen, hori, gorri, ubel.
Ohea —tira, izarak, egiaz—, urrekara dago jada,
urre gogor-gogorra, eta koltxoia
musutruk, harrizko bihurtu da.
Niri dagokidanez, Foxxy kuttuna,
ene zuretzako poemak hozkailuko itxaropen eternoan
salbu egon litezke ala ez...
Izan ere, zure eternitatea, ez al da aski?
Nire izena irratian zuzenean esan zenueneko hura.
Behatzek jada amore eman ez balidate,
osorik kontatuko nuke istorioa
—ez soilik izaren zatia—,
baita zilborraren istorioa ere,
betazal begiluzearen istorioa,
titiburuko whiski garratzaren istorioa.
Gure maitasuna lurpetik atera eta
dagokion lekura jaurtiko nuke.
Amiantozko nire eskularruak gorabehera,
hauts gorri-beltza iragazten dit
zainetan barrena eztulak.
Denon bistan dator bertan behera gure kutxa ttipia,
ahalegin berezirik gabe, ikusten duzu,
ekintza bakartia izan nahi luke,
maitasunaren errausketa,
baina, horren ordez, badirudi
Errusiako kale baten erdian hondoratzen ari garela.
Behin eta berriz jo eta zigortutako zaldiaren hotsa
ateratzen dute sugarrek,
gizakien garaipena gurtzen du zartailuak.
Eta bitartean, zain daude euliak,
ziztuz ziztu, zehatz-mehatz,
United Fruit Companytik hona bidean.
[1974]
Love Letter Written in a Burning Building
Dearest Foxxy, // I am in a crate, / the crate that was ours, / full of white shirts and salad greens, / the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks, / and I wore movies in my eyes, / and you wore eggs in your tunnel, / and we played sheets, sheets, sheets / all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics. / But today I set the bed afire / and smoke is filling the room, / it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt, / and the icebox, a gluey white tooth. // I have on a mask in order to write my last words, / and they are just for you, and I will place them / in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes, / and perhaps they will last. / The dog will not. Her spots will fall off. / The old letters will melt into a black bee. / The nightgowns are already shredding / into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple. / The bed — well, the sheets have turned to gold — / hard, hard gold, and the mattress / is being kissed into a stone. // As for me, my dearest Foxxy, / my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox / and its hopeful eternity, / for isn't yours enough? / The one where you name / my name right out in P. R.? / If my toes weren’t yielding to pitch / I'd tell the whole story — / not just the sheet story / but the belly-button story, / the pried-eyelid story, / the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story — / and shovel back our love where it belonged. // Despite my asbestos gloves, / the cough is filling me with black, / and a red powder seeps through my veins, / our little crate goes down so publicly / and without meaning it, you see, / meaning a solo act, / a cremation of the love, / but instead we seem to be going down / right in the middle of a Russian street, / the flames making the sound of / the horse being beaten and beaten, / the whip is adoring its human triumph / while the flies wait, blow by blow, / straight from United Fruit, Inc.