IDENTIDADES 1 ENGLISH IDENTIDADES 9 ENGLISH | Page 93

A poetess pale as death
To the poetess Teresa Melo.
In a hot Sunday,
maybe
in late May
or in mid-August,
the flowers are in their place
in the shadow of the German engine
that shakes
History.
She is sweet and subject of dispute
as the crust of the rice pudding,
She tries to read
the lines on her own hand and discover that silence
is the brightest one.
It's Sunday
time of tedium,
there is not a single gypsy in thousands of kilometers around,
the neckties are missing.
The telephone rings.
hoarse voice
distant
specifying a date
claiming kisses
alleging suicides
swearing to YAHWEH
offering the immortality.
She makes her little mouth a flute´s barrel,
NO NONONONONONO. Today she is not ready
for angels or Spanish publishers.
Neither the ones nor the others,
She wraps herself in a towel,
Leans out of the balcony,
jumps
as doped by the moon.
Heavily armed civilians,
removed the corpse,
put everything upside down
fall under the spell before a photo of the rock star
Madonna
They remove highly incriminating papers.
The heat travels from night to dawn.
An action group,
the abakuá power
CONDOMINA MEFE DEL BONGÓ METARE,
breaks bars,
doors,

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