Two Poems

Two Poems

Hernán Bravo Varela


For Enrique Fierro

Watching her graze,
without any reference
to greenness
or grass for the weight
of an udder.
The almost, hardly cow.
There is trust
in her lowing
and the white
and black of her sum,
although there are no grounds
to judge her coloratura lyrical
or not.
Once her opera of milk
has been rehearsed
for the pump,
in a stall
begins the dialogue
with her onomatopoeia.



The extraction of the stone
of gold, from the depths
—in reality, of gold.
Joy, it could be called,
that begins
by excavating,
by meeting the pure
caution of its sun.
(Gold is, in reality,
a query.)
Between the shovel, the pick,
and whoever’s hands
the above and below
of all the shadows,
breathing mined;
some karat
from least to most
that’s touched the earth.
What happened, ingot
of breadth?
When you say gold,
you mean to say blond.
Golden the tunnel
of closed eyes,
a curl of emptiness
falls outside.

Posted: April 9, 2012 at 4:04 am

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