Ernesto Priego


the fibers tense like dangerous cables
buzzing with the flow of light:

blood rushes, also slow, coagulated,
solid as iron stones waiting to come out.

the bed makes circles; a puddle of fluids,
a dense reflection of still movements.

time freezes; it's the numb limbs, hurting,
phantom pieces of a broken glass.

the wind outside sighs like mourners' sobbing
around the funeral blankets covering the pool.

the eyes stay shut; the tears as thick curtains;
sweat all over the opened skin. All there is

is nothing but the evening's dirty breathing,
the defunct motion of he who once was young.

the body stays, heavy as the carcasses of animals,
their skin sad with the colors of reflection.

illness makes one weary like the old clothes hanging
in the neighbor's roof: the wind hits, and dries away.

Ernesto Priego teaches literature and critical theory at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. His first poetry book, Not Even Dogs, will be out this Spring from Meritage Press.

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