Ahora estarás tirada boca abajo written by Mario Bojórquez
Translated from the Spanish by Guadalupe Robles


          facedown on the bed

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

       we all think at some point in the day

of that fire that burned us 

        and we yearn to return there,

to the edge of that fire

you lose your place and read without reading

       and then you have a hard time  returning to the scene

       that the Spanish novelist forged while delirious

you force yourself to return and read carefully

	what you no longer understand

and you turn yourself on your stomach and look at the pictures

on your bookshelf and get hung up on those
        your dreams so loved

how close you have been to them and how far

what an oppressive atmosphere the

        wide world has become

the urge to kick a religion, a country

        a language

and everything returns to being breathed in, to the rhythm of gun powder

but none of that worries you now

the future worries you

the causer of tomorrow

the almond beyond the shell

	the brilliant seed

and covered in oil you tell yourself it is hot

and you know the cold wind hits the windows

the craving  to have pleasure surround your waist

 at the extent of your hand

it could be me or some other nobody that in his hug

envelopes your body lightened of the weight

	of the world

and takes you beyond the coasts


where only the sound of the blood that runs

in its rumor of blooming beast exists

you return to the room from which you have not left

to tell yourself that it is better this way, that nothing matters

that there will never be a how or a where

for the perfect, the round, the exact