Urgency of dew

Maybe that's eroticism, 
getting close to death
and not die.

Camila Sosa Villada

To Gael Alejandro Marquet López 

I
It must have been the light emanated
by my insides
in the center of the world,
a way to die
unraveling
through the gap,
soft,
a bloody sweetness,
vulnerable pollen
strand
lost in the wound.

There,
pious to descend to the core.

II
This placid state,
deployed in
the night of my body,
it drags me, intuitive,
on the edge
incandescent
of the fatal
fiber
of the first song
in which the light
shaped the cavities.

Here I am,
open to the depth
of your prayer.

III
I wait for the heat
of those
funeral stars
define the code
from which pleasure
is made.

Without movement,
you accustom me to the warmth
design of nothingness.

IV
Sun in winter
by your side,
light
and your voice, angel:
fate,
aligned star,
two of cups.
I wait for you,
you are,
we are,
one next to each other;
unalterable flame
that rises
to the dream,
tender design
that is sheltered
at the brilliance of your pupil.

V
Everything alive,
beats
wanders
and shudders;
is the possibility
of existing
outside of this body;
I am,
I burn in eternity.
Your prayer awakens
the exact atom
of my feelings.

VI
This mouth is nocturnal
flowered,
opened,
oozing to indiscreet
milk,
fresh music
of rebellious prayers.

Dressed and cross-dressed,
lonely mouth,

Nocturnal, yes, nocturnal.
Ashamed mouth, nameless mouth,
degenerate mouth.
Prohibited,

Do you see this that covers and conditions me?

VII
The hunted
who becomes the hunter
and the hunter
who is hunted;
the deer
is who
fires the gun.
In the total
surrender that is
his death
the mystery
of the flesh
occurs.

VIII
The thin line
between dying
and enjoying,
stopping the agony
or succumbing
to pleasure;
I pray to my body
as to an amorphous place,
all eyes,
infested with war,
hate,
intertwined
and brutal,
I show
my performative
limbs to the moon,
I dance my monstrosity
in the fire,
I conceive myself in a
rabidly sexual, transvestite
agenerate
and marginal orgy.

IX
Solitary,
or perhaps lonely,
thus,

I bind the nights
to my sex.
My frantic fingers
whisper strange words
of recognition,
evoking the language of the moon.
In their unusual and infinite grammar,
they contemplate me.

Motionless,
I let the heat
linger
over this unloved
and unexplored area,

it is not strange,
or inquisitive;
it simply
is.

Photo by Mónica Ochoa