For Oskar
By the end of June
A river of aroused lava
Descended from the Chimborazo
Cauterizing the snow like laser
Towards the Pacific Guayaquil
To harden his cradle of waves
The deluge of fire fell like a revolt
of the same gods
Who in passed times celebrated in the Andes
And managed to nurture his body
While resisting his Caribbean roots
Since he was never hung onto a cross
Or had to walk over burning sands
He arrived intact
And with the eagerness of Don Quixote
Turned into a modern Midas
To defy the emperors in their salons
His infinite search for perfection
Makes me question:
What does he find by looking at death on my face?
What is the reflection of my scars?
And in spite of all the warnings
I fall in love yet again with his strength
As ivy tying myself to his obelisk in total rapture
Or punctually reclining myself
For the glare of his scapulas
To blind me
But don’t they say that love is blind?
New Jersey, 2008
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