“Poetry slips into dreams
like a diver who’s dead
in the eyes of God.”
—Roberto Bolaño, “Resurrection”
The amount of sorrow the skin can take
Is proportionate to the size of the heart
Beating beneath it
The crow realizes
It can fly directly into the heart
When it comes.
For some of us, tho, it
In the sun,
Leaves ivory teeth to gleam.
The thread is followed
And the girl appears:
Black of hair,
I only copy her down,
On the walls
Stained red-napkin words
On every bar top I come across—
The new stations of my new loss.
And I believed it, every word,
My every regret there to find me
Blood comes from under skin,
Made in a heart buried beneath it—
So is love,
Followed like a thread.
The dark recesses of who we thought we were,
When it was there for us—
“Her leopard legs would wrap around my waist
and she’d sink her head into my chest, searching for my
nipples or my heartbeat.
This is the part of you I want to suck, she said to me
What, Lupe? Your heart.”
—Roberto Bolaño, “Lupe”