Celebrating Purgatory from the 47th Piso

1

She encircles the magic carpet. It is the beginning of spring,

the initial irrational forays under the moon. She

may now open her mouth as if it were a crystal cascade

and feel no obligation towards the locked cabinet,

the armario, the grandfather clock; they are all becoming her face,

a dispersed portrait, a multicolored Sahara. She is smirking,

only a mere meter away the water is blue, the carpet

she views is water; and people play hide-and-go-seek

there en las sombras, quietly laughing and syncopated.

The moon has left her close-minded and alone, starving naked

for rain, the one-night-stand, the dagger. “Spirits, spirits,

spirits!” she motions, and mirrors fill the priceless living room.

She can, after all, weave through time. The ceiling is chandeliered

cynically. For what? for an ephemeral feeling,

for a revamping of the next uprising. She fathoms if,

when the music is done, she should curl up the satin curtains,

package the carpet, and join her peers out there

in the city, right here in the lights!

“O sources of compassion!” and they will greet

her with white gloves, mink coats and ivory belts hechos de mano!

Disregarding the phone call that was mistaken and ended quickly,

The weary carpenter of Buenos Aires, disregarding his own special

Innocence and the dismembered madness of the public, she’ll try!

2

Now, slouching in the maroon leather chair,

she prepares a delicacy for her peers. So!

the vapors wafting from the stucco kitchen

boil up aspirations of NYC, the city

the spring; these will begin any moment,

these are further than her invitados, the aged-

to-perfection Tabasco sauce and the peyote;

such is the coaster for catatonic

small talk and cocktails. As the peyote

simmers her undulating breasts she lets

the main course burn, her mouth opens with

pollen, like a storming floral inquisition, and

the city and the mirrors. She steps into

the mirror, absconding behind her discordant self,

and her guests perceive the cracked glass.

3

She must send a fax from her private mud-colored mansion,

but she realizes the city people don’t read:

“If I am ever to pass neon signs in rest,

I then must ask you for your hand. For now, mine

reach out with worn-out fingers into a surreal sky,

and the flowers look like mourners dirtied

over with lágrimas. Should I sob now or wait?

Here, only a ghost could drift along

in this massive space, static, stubborn, esoteric, herself

blooming fast in her withered lilied mouth.” Sincerely Rita.