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Echo

                         In memoriam Emily Dickinson

It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product—
Airs no Oceans keep—

Afloat between your lens
and your gaze,
the last consideration to go
across my gray matter
and its salubrious
deliquescence
is
whether or not I'll swim,
whether I'll be able to breathe,
whether I'll live as before.

I'm caught in the bubble
of your breath.
It locks me in.
Drives me mad.

Confined to speak alone,
I talk and listen,
question and answer myself.
I hum, I think I sing,
I breathe in, breathe in and don't explode.
I'm no one.

Behind the wall
of hydrogen and oxygen,
very clear, almost illuminated,
you allow me to think
that the Root of the Wind is Water
and the atmosphere
smells of salt and microbes and intimacy.

And in that instant comes
the low echo
of a beyond beyond,
a language archaic and soaked
in syllables and accents suited
for re-de-trans-forming,
bringing light
which brings out
melanin
from beneath another skin:
the hollow of a voice
which speaks alone.

    (Text of the poem in the original Spanish)


Pura López Colomé

Watchword
Wesleyan University Press


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