The hour of the dawn
When the bedsheets conspire
To wage anarchy.
*
A glutton for you:
When my mealtime is over
I lick my finger . . .
*
Ill-mannered, ill-bred:
I am ever inclined to
Eat with my fingers.
Spit mixed with spittle,
Late-flowering figs, shellfish, wine . . .
Drink, and drink again.
Ill-mannered, ill-bred:
When I yearn to address you
I talk with my mouth full . . .
*
Inside your vessels
There simmer viscid juices,
Drought-stricken desert.
The forefinger seeks
The mystery of the pulp,
Of the gelatin,
The nose reposes
There, amid the simmering
Of the turbid broth.
And the sweet syrup
Cascades down the slope of your
Throat, below your mouth:
*
I warned you clearly
An omnivorous poet,
I eat everything.
*
Sex is simply this:
A staple of sustenance
Anthropophagy.
© Elvira Tobío. Translation © 2014 by Adrian Nathan West. All rights reserved.
