Dime por qué todavía te deseo

Uno no debería leer poesía después de medianoche. Sobre todo, uno no debería leer esos libros en los que ya sabe qué es lo que se va a encontrar. Me pasa que cojo un libro de poemas de Cortázar, al que vuelvo, de vez en cuando, con ese placer un poco masoca, en noches como ésta. Noches en las que a uno le duele una mujer en todo el cuerpo, como decía Borges.


Dime por qué todavía te deseo, por qué tu nombre vuelve
como el hacha a la herida en una amarga visitación de medianoche;
[...]
por qué me basta componer un mecanismo elemental de sílabas,
marcar en el cogollo de la niebla las cifras de tu nombre,
para que solitariamente
me agobie la esperanza de una menuda migración de dedos por mi pelo,
de una fragrancia en donde habita el musgo.

jc

Y entonces me dejo barba encima de la que ya tengo, me imagino grandullón como lo fue Julio, y me sale una voz como la de Tom, el que está aquí abajo y que canta por mí -en mi lugar- p-r-e-c-i-s-a-m-e-n-t-e lo que yo quiero cantar.

Touch your mouth

I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.

You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two cyplopses look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.”…

J.C. Hopstcotch