M a t e o M o r r i s o n —

translated by A r i e l F r a n c i s c o

From Your Other Station

It’s been twelve years

since I ascended your body

sculpting my statue

on your waist.

III

Some music should break this silence

some distant drum should appear

no ancestor has filled

this room with sounds.

V

We won’t know how to organize for ourselves

this infinite night

when time seems to flower

in our bed.

II

From trees that arrive by night

from newly released colors

emerged this strange effigy

we’ve molded

in high thermals.

III

When our ancestors placed one

by one the stones of this home

we decided to pass the night

and smile while recalling

that place of noble inhabitants

we now supplant.

In this bed of Don Nicolas de Ovando

we’ve molded our love

and the waters of the Ozama

seem like other waters,

other rivers, other instances.

IV

I remembered, the far wind in Shanghai,

your burning voice

and with my nostalgia built

a huge breath to reach you.

VIII

The mirror refracts

the ocean cadences of your waist

mid-dream I see you

erased image

descend to my dream.

.