To Alejandra Pizarnik

All the ice creams
that Borges never ate,
I indulge in now;
a poet without feet
is a monster
with wings.
I savor the cold,
while you remain
with your deer-like fears.
I will curl my hair
with violins and dance
in black on the savanna.

Alejandra, Alejandra,
I invoke you tonight,
shuddering,
I evoke your scent from San Isidro,
of damp towels,
of third-rate poetic cigarettes.
Enter my room
and cast the dice
upon my belly,
Alejandra.
They will fall one by one
into my navel
and descend through my garden
to the mouth of a bird
in the morning.
m.p.

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