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With enough money for a beer each. Over a shared hot dog the younger one had proposed: We gotta meet women! And out they went in their innocently foreign sandals.

Haikus del buen amor de Lara Cantizani. Grabación para La voz a ti debida

Sorry to bother you, the older partner addresses the bartender, but do you have any friends who might want to marry us, um, for the papers? The bartender draws back, her torso a bridge pulling away from a tall ship in flames. She looks up, closes her eyes. As waves roll in the distance.

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As birds notarize with their footprints a brown document of sand, citizens suited for flight. The bartender shakes her head No. Queen of her island of shot glasses that turn throats into tiny volcanoes. Where rings left by bottles on coasters fade faster than a crazy marriage proposal. Stamps on passports with overstayed visas.

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Punchlines no one laughs at beneath palm trees dangling green cards. Ciudadanos Dos muchachos entran a un bar. Dos chicos gay.

En un bar hetero. Con plata para una cerveza cada uno. La barman retrocede, su torso un puente que se aleja de una fragata en llamas. Mira hacia arriba, cierra los ojos. Mientras las olas fluyen en la distancia.

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La barman dice NO con la cabeza. Reina de su isla de copitas que vuelven gargantas en volcanes diminutos. Sellos en pasaportes con visas vencidas. Remates de chistes que no causan gracia bajo palmeras de las que cuelgan green cards. Vendors selling twelve shades of dyed fur, seventeen colors of woven jaguar motif. Indigo plant, cochineal, the purple dye of sea mollusks.

Daily readings from Rilke

Harvest of the living by the living. A hurricane is coming. All is now specific and small as the eight-inch water lily spirit with an azure bird riding its head. In Nahuatl the word means shut into the palace with war. Fighting scarlet horsemen. Within the plumed soldiers, wet red tanks beating, waiting to fire. Without a face.

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Without a blood. A detailed account would be endless. We have been delirious, been desired, been battered. Of ships crossing the horizon, who invited you?

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Tell me, asks the skin of one who lies on the beach watching. Tell me, flower moving across water. Will you be gentle or harsh against me? Suitcase of uncertainty. Like conquistador. Doors closed on all sides. No one gets out. Then more warriors surround the city. Like moat. Like wall. Ever separate. Symmetrical and always evening.

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Le cuenta todo lo que pueda acercarlo a ella. Lola Underneath the tall brass bed covered up with the knitted quilt that provided checkered clarity, she felt safe. That early hour was the best part of the day. The cousins taking French lessons with the teacher, Charito, in the library, the grandmother in the office arranging the daily tasks with the foremen, the mealtime nowhere near.

She pushes the enormous chamber pot to the furthest corner, arranges the heap of soft, perfumed sheets of paper from the Netherlands, carefully checks the tips of the quills, and, after finishing the ritual, begins to write to her beloved. She tells him all she has seen, the color of water at sunset when it looks as if the horizon and the sea were burning in a large flare, the firmament at night where not one more star could fit, and how the cocuyos, glowing in the long, shady hallways resemble tiny fluorescent fish in a lake of dark water.

When the girls catch some, they place them under their thin muslin skirts and, as they turn off the oil lamps, they start to dance, like ghosts inside the shadows of the enormous living room, surrounded with mirrors and life-sized saints. A mixture of fragrances bombards her senses, the recently toasted coffee along with the aroma of the nearby trapiche filtering through the windows, mixing with the smoke of the cane fields burning in the distance.

She tells him everything that might bring him closer to her. He, who lives in such a far and cold country, Scotland, with beautifulsounding names: Moray, Perth, more like the titles of poems than the names of cities, she thinks. Scotland, where all men are blonde, bearded and blue-eyed. She writes a letter full of love and ends shyly beseeching his presence: If you were here with me, you would see how the magnolia is throwing its petals, covering the patio with a perfumed pink carpet.

It is a letter from a girl to a man; she writes the address on the envelope: Entonces vagaran como sucias gaviotas sobre la blanca arena. They will then wander like dirty seagulls on the white sand. Now comes the part that makes the day worthwhile. My loved one, she writes, from the cold mists of the highlands, I send you these letters to tell you how much I love you. I dream of the moment of meeting you in that blue sea that you have told me so much about.

She writes filled with passion, inhabiting his character completely: she writes to herself. The quill is flying without control. It is a river that runs by the cliffs of passion, becomes a swamp, and at last emerges triumphant in the sunshine of hope. Soon, my love, the day will come when we will walk together on your sugar beaches.

She ends exhausted bathed in an orgasmic sweat. She folds the letter and tucks it inside the envelope with the postage stamps she bought in Veracruz and which no one in the house has seen. She writes the name and the address with her left hand: Mlle. She leaves on the birlocho heading to town and discreetly places the letter inside the mail packet. She knows from experience that next Saturday the letter will be back in her hands, stamped in Veracruz, which renders it real and legitimate. Joven, prieto, grandote, pelos parados.