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.