Carpet: for Lourdes Casal by Nancy Morejon

The idea of a poem
comes in through the window,
perhaps performed, with no notice.
Did I maybe manage to fool
so much lost longing. . .?
It’s as if a carpet,
as if someone placed
a carpet at my feet
and now steady I should take
sharp flights, with benevolence
of that reader whose dream nested
the reading of Boti. . .
I can’t. . .
Oh steady dream,
oh clear sails toward my red body. . .
And the idea of the poem
is no longer,
is no longer.

translated by Katherine M. Hedeen

from I’ll Sell You A Dog by Juan Pablo Villalobos

And then, just when it seemed like nothing else could happen, everything shifted, as if some joker had moved it all around, and suddenly there were stockings in the fridge, broken light bulbs under my pillow, the cockroaches were reading Proust, the dead grew tired of being dead and the past was no longer what it had been.

translated by Rosalind Harvey