Ruth Thalía writes to the poet

  today I heard the capitol catch

fire     like a burning bush

      all I could see were ground glass and

sun      it was the FARC   I assume  since

sendero is dead even though homes 

in Lima still shine in a myelin

sheath    insects on their  backs

  under tearing star

      at  least that is what I 

see   from here      like a million 

trembling stitches on a floor rug    

 

 

      I can also see capitalism     DOUBLE 

JEOPARDY    and the answer:   What is

trite         ca-pi-ta-lis-mo     I can hear

    it is a white sphere   so smooth

I want to stroke   with

vibrating fingertips    string it  

onto a thread    wear it like a cross 

perched always between my 

breasts     keep it moist    screen its golden

eyes from  the stubbled capitol

shifting between relapse and   remission

        viscous black splotches wave from

silvery column      physicians have

diagnosed     so I’ve been told    the

ailment        confusion of self and non-

self       and are beginning administration  

of a cure          oh   why do you keep  

pulling at your scalp          lab coats always

reminded me of Miraflores      of Dracula

of mountains of lime

 

 

once I threw two handfuls

at my face       stood at the center of

the highway at the foot of my home

and almost thought I felt

my heart    beat white      tightroping

along the yellow painted line   I walked

in silence until midnight 

 

     to my left waves fell   silhouettes

of piled trash became far red hills

and the road smelled of salt and beer 

     alive       you and I   looked

at the world sideways and

missed all the shapes I now see

   from above and below