Read-ache (Barcelona; 26 de septiembre)
A bird just flew upon the window,
just now and flitted back and away.
The rain was brief but so damp and cool,
A rarity, too, that it gets inside the lungs, like it has now,
that it makes one feel like putting on a sweater and
reading, reading until
the warmth comes back, or until
the blood begins to flow again.
I could eat these words if I hadn’t
already eaten lunch.
I’m full, but I could also be empty.
There is room for this narrative inside me.
I can feel it being written on the
in-side of my skin,
the other side, the one
you can’t see,
unless you flayed me wide open
like Murakami’s Boris the Man Skinner might do,
or like the unfortunate demise of the satyr in that painting,
the Titian I think.
(Yes, the Titian, the Marsyas, who cried,
according to Dante,
“Why do you strip myself from me?”)
If you were to go so far, you might be able
to make out Bolaño’s words,
in English translation
(or maybe if I’m lucky they will be translated
back to Spanish in the process of being
tattooed upon the flip-side
of my skin.
Also a rarity,
and maybe only in a dream at that.