Comiendo poesía
La tinta se
escapa por la comisura de mis labios.
No hay
felicidad como la mía.
Estuve
comiendo poesía.
La bibliotecaria
no puede creer lo que ve.
Sus ojos están
tristes
y camina
con las manos sobre el vestido.
Los
poemas se han ido.
La luz es
débil.
Los
perros están en la escalera del sótano y suben.
Revolean
los ojos,
refriegan
sus patas rubias.
La pobre bibliotecaria
comienza a patalear y a llorar.
Ella no
comprende.
Cuando me
pongo de rodillas y lamo su mano
ella
grita.
Soy un
hombre nuevo.
Le gruño
y le ladro,
Muero de
alegría en la oscuridad libresca.
Mark Strand, Summerside, Canadá, 1934-
Brooklyn, 2014
versión ©Silvia Camerotto
Eating poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
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