MARCOS RODRÍGUEZ FRESE (Puerto Rico, 1941)
The sea, ancient lustful enemy,
accustomed to loving while rolling in his bed,
stirred up during the day and, in the evening,
tired now, extenuated from illusory orgasms,
saw you with me, coffer of slavish tongue,
flesh of moist flames, prodigious
creature brought into the world for rejoicing.
He saw you with me, hand that touches and blind,
skin where carnations and hopes blush,
violent stream of a plaintive sun,
and could no longer put his liquids in order,
wallow in the sedative of twilight.
I know he raised his eyes to where the clouds
weighed anchor, grew thin from foaming jealousy
and went out to repopulate a sky without destiny.
He saw you with me, saw your unshod feet,
your thighs that make one fall devoted as the wind
he guessed your womb of effaced paths
and remained in stealth
awaiting your murmurous surrender.
Then, he raised his hands, effervescent, bitter,
dragged himself many times across the beach, and licked
trying to reach, to violate your pensive
eager heart, only to deal me a blow.
But he left behind nothing more than a marine flavour,
of salt sifted through the canvas of the air,
Imprinted with the ancient tongues of his breath.
He saw you with me.
And was envious.