Flesh/ María Calcaño

spread the gasp
of your most beautiful sin:
you are like a garden
empty yourself
in the one that snaps
the golden tapestry of your bloom
like creatures awaiting for god
as naked roses
the hundred disordered hairs
flesh… flesh of mine!
call intensely,
restless holder:
you are like a garden


Digression III/ Yolanda Pantin

The language is left
but is hollow
The sound of loved words is left
but is noise
The pure silence of things is left
when they are
The man alone with the verb
and pure things in silence are left
without words

From Poemas del escritor (Fundarte, 1989).