“Surrealism is only shocking to those who are shocked by dreams,” André Breton.
Scads of old wounds, tía. Scads. El viento
muere/ en mi herida. “The wind dies/ in
my wound.” And in the blood, tía, its slow
flow, a queer smear. Horror under the skin.
Horror that keeps itching. Alejandra,
tía, I’ll still be your your fag hag that keeps
you from the night that gnaws and, mendiga,
begs in your blood. Infernal stone that weeps.
Sugar crusts. The crunch and chew of language.
An itch. A witch. I cannot stop, auntie,
I call you all: Necromancer of words
and wounds. This scar? Where I pulled my innards
out. Where I washed my old wound in the sea
and used your name as its heinous bandage.
Notes.
If Federico Garcia Lorca would be my uncle, then please let Alejandra Pizarnik be my aunt. These two poets taught me more about the craft than anyone else. And yes, I use the term Craft as in the dark Dionysian powers of the psyche and soul. Pizarnik wrote in fragments, as the language she used drove her insane. Artistically, she is sister to Paul Celan, who wrote in German and committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. Language as virus. Language as plague. The poem of hers I use is, “El viento muere en mi herida./ La noche mendiga mi sangre.”
