Sergio A. Ortiz

Death of Narcissus 

Narcissus doesn’t see the antlers 
of the murdered deer. Lips are paths, 
sad flames, waves that lick his hips. 

Cold green fish swim in the mirror. 
Flocks of pigeons hide in the dead throat, 
daughter of the arrow and the swan. 
Foam hangs from his eyes, 
marmoreal skin begins to drop off, 
a heron cruises around the corpse.
He hears fruit-like screams in the snow, 
the secret covered by geraniums.

Silk whiteness, spilled lips,
open oblivion. Eyelashes 
surrender to the dream, 
on an impure seashore.
Lips search for the straight 
thread of life. They are slaves 
of wet contours. The air bites, 
changes its sound into a blond 
litmus of salt lime and war waist.

If Narcissus goes through the mirror, 
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its seashore 
or inclines his forehead the antlers gouge 
his side. If he opens his mouth, 
bees penetrate his eyes 
and the letters inside 
the dream fall apart.

Airwaves wrap the albino’s 
harpooned skin.  Color the hallways 
of his memory until the minute 
of silence transverses endless 
whiteness in the dry flames and drizzled 
leaves in water. Bees sting the wake 
of his corpse, demand they be given 
the gunwale of his body. 
This is how the mirror found out 
Narcissus took to the sky 
in the middle of toxic water. 

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