(after Ted Berrigan and Federico Garcia Lorca)
Si muero, dejad el balcon abierto
--Federico García Lorca, Despedida
Juan Rulfo is dead. Twenty one years ago, he moved
With pale thighs to the dream trees of Comala.
Today, he awakens to the light of my room,
Rising to meet my eyes, asking in tender tones:
A donde vas Margarita?
I want to say to him:
Voy a la casa de Pedro Paramo, in your village
Of the dead who love, lust, kill in passion, or hope
As if the door of life had never slammed shut.
Instead, I tell him of another Margarita, barely 18,
Giving birth to a daughter at high noon, gored
In the belly by the bull’s horn, almost bled dry.
Doomed to die at five in the afternoon, her life crossed
The threshold and opened the balcony to the sun.