THE END OF LOVE
I understand the men were posed, grass, grapeseed, and
ginkgo. And lifted away heavy pollutants. I understand
that we were s-posed to be disposed for liquidation but i
am a snow leopard. What are devils, what are in the de
-tales, what are historical import’s cases, what should Christ ever
pardon. There are rhetorical questions and so am i and so
i am. When i hear rhetorical questions posed “What is” i
countermand them into answers “What isn’t” which deadens or intensifies
their force. Rhetoric tries then to consolidate male austere and dominating
force into a hunger discourse, but if that discourse doesn’t sing
mama’s femininity becomes a gay man, not in corpor able in relation to the body
politic and the mand- -ate is against effeminacy, dilation, deferral
sexual frustration. The point must be struck direct into the heart’s
purgation. I know this country by memory. I have traveled from the point
to the other points, there are a lot of dots, Pisagua, Iquique, the
Talcahuano zone, a point’s dilation but, that is still a point, just
the way a clit swells. Or the way that cells acquit. I say this as
if I quit, as if this is beside the point. Respect is loss, lost, lolled, and children
get dilated by priests. It’s not always good. And so what can any person hope from any
person? What can one expect from men? There is nothing
can be done, that is what I say. What I say (questions) forms. I fought against Pinochet
like one black squirrel along a telephone line, chewing through it til
I died. At least crows hold funerals. It’s because they don’t hold
hands. They do not delude themselves into the false consolation of a false
consolation, intimacy, they circle those that die. In that way crows are
like crowds. Kin or no, they import
or lend import to a set of strangers’ skin. It’s all underneath the bird fur
anyway, we’re talking children. Talking of. And if children are
not sacred, then what in fuck is? A country is nothing
without children, without children a country is
Father, I interrupted him, I am that dead child.
I devoted and took note this dream this number is
72. I open the window.
In the distance the cataracts of the Pacific takes down details.
Excerpted from Mine Camphor, an English dilation of Raúl Zurita’s Zurita.
Jared Joseph is a recent graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop MFA program in poetry, and is currently pursuing a PhD in Literature at the University of California – Santa Cruz. Recent poems have been published by or are forthcoming in Fence, Noo Journal, and Spork. His and Sara Peck’s book “here you are” is available from Horse Less Press.