12 marzo 2011

Sometimes, love’s leashes
leave marks
and they aren’t pretty to see,
it’s shameful to admit
almost everything
is Calvary, it’s all lost
and your arms fall to the floor
like somebody who tries to draw expiatory scribble;
like somebody who
feels out their plot, the sepulcher plexus
at home amongst thorns: my back
bleeds stigmata in payments
due every now and
then the leashes cut, fed up

that everything is going my way,
except when it pertains to what’s mine.

                                        mayorías de uno
                                                            nicolás pinkus (trad. jacob steinberg)

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