IN PURGATORY

 

In purgatory I see castles made of bones

seraglios with slaves, Zinc basins wherein

swim women covered with boils, their face

down and limbs in disorder, with necks

as stretched as a goose’s, sextons with their

lips full of drool shining with lusts, big

dead houses wrapped in tinfoil, lacquered

pieces of furniture smitten by remnants

of the dead even the ghosts of the evil

mayoralty hide in the cases of the forgotten

filthy hotel houses, streets, sidewalks,

a cannibal’s parlour at the bottom of a lake

with his woman as nestled as a white animal

abandoned, tranquil peasant houses,

not inhabited villas, the cage of the thieves,

widow’s funereal cereal porridge made of wheat.

Surely I don’t feel bad there, no one smites me

with the club from behind, not even dad

thrashes me with the sour cherry branch

that I broke when I climbed the tree,

nor do the sheep that I grazed take me into account

any longer. I sleep like a child, I move

like an ant, I observe the feasts to be kept

and in the summer I go to the beach.

People love me and I love them, too.

I bear my condition easily there: the diseases,

the insomnias, the nightmares, the rats

of the expansion, the serpentine enthusiasms,

the idea of death, the mole crickets that scratch

my heart, the caterpillars that lay their tiny eggs

in my brain and perforate my sleep at night

the morning in the expansion of the day

and the day that never arrives on time,

that always misses her sunsets. I give up

the tablet of reasonings, the ID card,

the good conduct certificate and the survival

certificate. I swim like the butter in the mist

of a mirror, in front of me the world like a pink

railroad car that swings in the superhuman delight

of the halts. There they are all at a tasty banquet

but bound to a pole and surrounded by flames.

The insomnia has no end.

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