Ahora estarás tirada boca abajo written by Mario Bojórquez
Translated from the Spanish by Alejandra González Jiménez
Now you must be lying face down
reading a Spanish novel,
while your legs rise
over the imprint of the sheets.
There is something in your waist that ignites
with the soft touch of the elastic,
and you think that
everyone thinks at some point in the day
of that fire that burned us and yearn
to return to the edge of that fire.
You lose your place and read without reading.
Then you find it difficult to return to the scene
that the Spanish novelist forged
in hours of delirium.
You commit yourself
to return and read carefully
what you no longer understand.
You turn face up,
and you see the photographs
on your bookshelf.
You keep holding on to those
beloved dreams of yours.
How close have you been to them and how far!
What oppressive atmosphere
has the whole wide world become!
What longing of kicking
Everything returns to breathe
to the rhythm of the lung.
But nothing of that worries you right now.
You worry about the future.
The detonation of tomorrow.
The almond beyond the shell,
the brilliant seed.
Full with oil you tell yourself it’s hot,
and you know the cold air hits the windows.
Oh how I sometimes want to extend my hand,
so that the pleasure surrounds your waistline.
It can be me or another nobody whose embrace
wraps your body now light of the burden
of the world.
That takes you farther away
from the sea shores inside;
where only the sound of blood exists
that runs in its rumor of blooming beast.
You return to the room from where you haven’t left,
and say it’s better like this;
that nothing matters.
There will never
be a how,
for the perfect roundabout
of exact happiness.
You get up in slippers
and go to the shower,
the next day beginning at dawn,
and enter smiling in the stream of water.
You have done this today
and many other times.
Somehow the occurrence of water wraps you,
while I drink coffee under the mango tree.
I’m going to go out later,
but my heart already pumps blood
all the way to my feet.
I tell myself and know that you do too,
when you are applying/rubbing lotion over your legs,
that life is barely starting
for the one that is losing hope,
in front of the mirror.
Yet knows that before the mirror,
what’s left to do is to smile,
or make a face of fatigue.
For all of that, you smile
and feel sought out for,
within the almond forests of my desire.
You know that I’m preparing
for my expedition,
and you stick your nose out
in the new air of the morning.
You look down
on the exact drawing of the city
to your feet.
You think again on my return.
What do I do,
if not follow your footprints
in the wet mud?
The night has been a terrible sea of darkness,
and desolation has crossed the room many times.
You returned to the same place
where the sleepless mirror
returns your double gaze.
You look as
if the world itself had disappeared,
and it’s only for yourself.
You love those moments
in which you
and yourself, both, are one.
The step that they have
to take will be a dance.
I put on the shirt that I will wrinkle
while driving until I arrive to your city.
And put the shirt that I will wear to see you
inside the suitcase on top of the pile.
I revise again the
inevitable instruments of travel.
The red dots in your skin
confirm that it has to be treated
with my salty hands,
and massaged with honey fluids.
You see yourself without them,
and you like yourself again.
Then you think that nothing will stop.
That I will go up, the curvy steps,
until I softly touch your face
with a kiss.
The day will be filled
with late news of our hearts,
but we have to go down for breakfast.
We have to face the hours
that are left of the encounter;
as if fatal sentences
had been made from the necklace of time.
You see me cross the line
of the states, and say that there is no
fruits in my truck.
That I take all the fruits
inside for you to take them out of my heart
depending on your yearning appetite.