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In the Drying Shed of Souls


Drips drips drips
drips
drips
drips
the cytostatic IV
the veinburster
cr
  ush
         ing
                you
slowly
s l o w l y
while next to you
someone talks
about decline
about time
about the endless crisis
the nation
finds itself in
and behind
the nervous pane
it’s raining
still the water
doesn’t cleanse
or cure
the expression
of life
or death
in faces
and some kids
seem happy
beneath the drizzle
not thinking
how much pain there is
only a few meters away
from them

only a few meters away
everyone’s stopped crying
eyes
have dried
in the drying shed
of souls
drips
drips
drips
the cytostatic IV
toward the limbs
that desert
horizontality
eating away
at flesh
and spirit
drips
toward the spirit
and shadow’s
trunk
sprouts once more
like a jagüey tree
ripens its roots
out in the red open
drips
toward the neck
where your pain
and mine
are drawn
drips
drips
drips
and later you have
no more anguish
you have no more
substances
to recall.


Leyman Pérez

Kenyon Review

January/February 2018


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