My girl, the superheroes have started dreaming of their headstones. They now write poems in their coffins.
Poetry is how you throw rocks at that special cloud where God sits.
I remember my childhood. I would go up to the edge of the river so the water would wet my shadow.
I was happy. My mother was a bird of pollen. I was a bird of pollen. One day I got it into my head to pick at my thoughts and pulled out of my left eye like the tail of a comet my memory.
I remember my childhood. It was necessary to get home early, because the night would soon bloom like a rose of vampire bats. I searched for my secret parents in the hearts of trees. I tried to speak to the rocks and to rewrite the course of the rivers, but the adults told me it was impossible.
I was born like a wounded flower that rises from the snow. I wandered the world like a ghost ship. I built a cemetery with my father for the birds of pollen that kept falling from the sky. The men stood up on top of cars and started to dance and to scratch their own faces.
I am beginning to think that the alphabet is no more than a secret code to return the planet to where we came from. I write on the curtains of my room the destruction of the world.
I am full of fear. A fear that wears a crown of stars. Three days ago I dreamt that my mother was sewing up my mouth. I don’t recognize myself. I look in the mirror and find an angel stripping the world bare. I have the terrible desire to scream my name.
I am a woman made of 500 birds inside. I have no memories of my hometown. I am dreaming myself up. I have no memories of my childhood. I am dreaming myself up. My life never was. I have discovered that poetry is a canvas that is painted without using paintbrushes, a dance that is performed without using a body, a kiss that is given without using lips. I have discovered that poetry is a game in which it is prohibited to follow the rules; that it’s an understanding that our chests are full of moss, of snow, of water, of earth and of seeds that flower like suns; that poetry is a flock of birds tearing up the body from the inside out; that poetry is speaking with the pigeons on the roofs of cathedrals.
I will be born. I will grow up. I will learn to fly. And then I will shatter my beak from hitting it against the rocks so many times.
The tree stays still and dissolves our nostalgia. The kids with auburn hair grab a fistful of grass, hold it up, and stare. The window looks back and winks at you, smashes your hands, reader, and your proletariat heart bleeds. The fountain overflows, touches my ankles. The ball floats and dreams of me as a crazy woman who writes and dances on a wall. I also stay still and watch how a butterfly comes to a complete rest in my hands.
Whoever hides from the rain, spreads illness; whoever takes joy in it, is bathed.
I want the death of Mexico to be beautiful
I want her death to be a gorgeous and inexplicable act
like the birds
For my name to be life
I want artists to throw their work into the seas and
to begin writing over their own bodies
Words, every word has fallen through me into a clay pot. I think of the world. And the world thinks of me. And then it looks at itself through my eyes and it feels a beautiful yearning to cut itself. I am in front of a tower, from which a man launches microhistories at me in the form of histories written in the blood of dawn. The world thinks of me and watches how I throw a clay pot at the floor. In that clay pot, it thinks, was the divine plexus of grammar. It looks at me. It opens up my chest with its starry hands, and cries. I run and hide in the hollow of a tree. The world thinks of me and in those other cells of cancer that kiss its life. The man comes down from the tower and tells me things about fiction that I do not understand. I am going to gather up flowers from Gaby’s interior, because it is the only place where I can truly think of the world. I launch myself at the interior of a comic strip and see how Whitman dissolves into butterflies. I launch myself at the world, and I feel a yearning to cut myself.
Words are seeds, singing is sowing.
You can also read a poem by Meza at The Scrambler translated by Jacob Steinberg with an introduction by Luna Miguel.