main | Vacant room | Dawning | Butcher shop | Simplicity | Farewell | Dulcia
Linquimus Arva | Last sun in Villa Ortúzar | Mythical
founding of Buenos Aires | Deathwatch on the Southside | Buenos Aires
Deaths | Chess | Quatrain | Cyclical Night | A
thirteenth-century poet | Susana Soca | Camden, 1892 | A Northside
knife | Milonga of Albornoz | New England, 1967 | The labyrinth | Invocation to
Joyce | Tankas | Susana Bombal | Things | Menaced | You | Poem of
quantity | The
sentinel | To the German language | 1891 | Hengist asks
for men, A.D. 449
| Browning poet resolves to be | Suicide | I am | Fifteen coins | Blind man | 1972 | Elegy | The exile
(1977) | In memory of Angelica | My books | Talismans | The white deer | The profound
rose | Mexico | Herman Melville | To Johannes
Brahms | Baruch Spinoza | Alhambra | Music box | Adam is your ashes | On acquiring
an encyclopedia | Nostalgia for the present | The accomplice | Shinto | The cipher | My last tiger | The cypress
leaves | The weft
The sentinel
Light enters and I
remember me; he's there.
He begins with his name, which is (now clear) mine.
Slavery again of seven times ten and more.
He imposes his memory.
Imposes the daily grief, the human condition.
I'm an old nurse; I have to wash his feet.
He lurks in mirrors, mahogany, store windows.
Spurned by this or that she he shares his anguish.
He dictates me this poem I don't like.
Demands I learn the nebulæ of stubborn Anglo-Saxon.
Has taught me the cult of military heroes, I couldn't say a
word to.
He's there with me at the top of the stairs.
In my footsteps, my voice.
Truly I hate him.
Delightfully he cannot see.
My prison is circular and shrinking.
We don't fool one another, we lie.
We know each other too well, my brother.
You drink my cup and eat my bread.
The door of suicide is open, but theologians say I'll be there
in the other world,
waiting.