The Seven Hands
There was nothing to be done.
It sprouted identical, intact
every time I touched it.
The leaves were fake. Memory
was a tangle of masts and cables.
Grasses gushed with liquid light
until the windowsill became a sparrow.
It is transparency run aground
in the hotel lobby
of an invisible fountain of laments.
Every night she laughed
with mirrors abolished
in a rumble of bowels.
God help us! I volunteered my flesh
and love unspaces it back to time.
I cannot part from my
pneumatic cube of glass.
It slivers the waste,
it explodes in clearings of silence.
I will never know what it all means.
My two eyes were souls
grieving for the world.
Her cartilage was
a mirage with seven hands.
seed text: The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz
art by Eugenia Loli