Tuesday, September 2, 2014

José Antonio Mazzotti, "Poem 24", from Sakra Boccata (trans. Clayton Eshleman)

If I write to Him it is to populate this blank page
The proportion of the shore assigned to us after the freshet
To fill it with pebbles until we see it grow
To purify its lines in spite of the sand

There the perfect stage for the Mass was erected 
There I climbed to sacrifice myself
With an inverted smile spidering my chest
While with the face of the devil he plunged his hand
Into what was most genital of the terrestrial
Lost in darkness I enjoyed its fragrant boiling
I saw its waves rise like a mottled snake
I merged with the gods I Was a goddess
Who then was found splashed on the plants
Under the fire of the rain and his breath

They called me Toxcatl
Because I am the goddess of time
And while he pulled out the stone
And pain cut through me and my blood screamed
He was only doing what he had to do
Before returning to his boring tribe
To cook little bones and to open up dogs

In spite of everything
I still come in the morning to populate it

If the fools only knew
This part of the field belongs to no one
And just as we discovered it
They will take it from us

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