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.
One thought on “Sergio A. Ortiz”
Dang, that’s good.