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Cedo ao rastro de restos que
me tenta até ti
(pernas de nylon vazias
sapatos
desafogados)
metades desirmanadas que
arrumo no poema. Posso
disturbar
o teu espaço? Entrar e ficar a ver?
Estás
sob a linha d'água
(gume
que fere o mamilo)
como um escultor pergunto
com a precisão de poros
pela
mulher dentro da pedra.
Desenrolas da torneira o
novelo que te veste
(o
corpo em repouso contem
a soma dos movimentos)
lavo-te
até ao teu cheiro até
respirar de ti
o
perfume verdadeiro.
João Luís Barreto Guimarães
Rés-do-Chão
Gótica
2003
|
The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect you are the only one in the classroom who knows the answer, because the person in question is yourself, and on that you are the greatest living authority, but you don’t raise your hand. You raise the top of your desk and take out an apple. You look out the window. You don’t raise your hand and there is some essential beauty in your fingers, which aren’t even drumming, but lie flat and peaceful. The teacher repeats the question. Outside the window, on an overhanging branch, a robin is ruffling its feathers and spring is in the air. Mary Ruefle
From Cold Pluto, 1996, 2001
Carnegie Mellon University Press
Copyright 1996, 2001 Mary Ruefle.
All rights reserved. |
