The deep lake of literature had long sensed my infidelity
As great bodies of water sense the ripples and splashes
From stones skipped by small children.
At the alignment of VISTAS: INTRODUCCIÓN A LA LENGUA ESPAÑOLA
Between Poe and Oedipus, Quasimodo regarded me accusingly
With his single, lonely eye. Cervantes smiled quietly from the bookshelf.
Hamlet trembles in alarm as I conjugate.
Yo hago. Tu haces. Nosotros hacemos.
What cannibal becomes the poet
Who drinks the blood of language so that it cannot
Sing or scream? Who ties its lips to
Find that they are water, and will sing?
Of course, I had hoped to escape confrontation.
It was evident, however, in the professor’s calm
Derision as he blasphemed, “Nadie escriba poemas“—
No one writes poetry—
That my lording Titan suspected highest treason.
“Alyssa,” — with what noble bearing did I pale!— “Escribes poemas?”
And with what noble bearing did I malign, “No escribo.” I do not write.
Nowhere the poet’s faithful glory now— within him
Lives a mighty god who dies not nor grows old,
But, adulterous, the gods, the gods go down.
Emily Dickinson clicks her ever-chastening tongue.
“Έχετε κάνει άσχημα,” says Eliot with a frown.
How can I, poetess, deprive that lake
Of its sweet blood, its song, its silver swords?
I cannot drain that great reflecting mass
Of quiet answering stars which laugh out
Yes, and no, and yes.
I am heiress, always heiress, to those dark, entangling waters.
I will drink them, and their sweet black hands
Will carry me past death.
