Gustavo Osorio de Ita
Translated from the Spanish by Arthur Sze
Because of Living
Because of living, I know about things
—Clarice Lispector
Because of so much living, your body has become a scaffolding of past residues from the wire of a house that oxidize with the rains that come from this month that you liked so much.
And your dreams have been polished, now dull alabasters of altars where those who only have their hopes in the past pray.
And your voice has become black, stripped-down air.
And your name in that voice that is leaving me like the last sweet water to the one who survives shipwreck is a sentencing and will pass.
There are houses that are never built.
Things we ask for without knowing that we won’t be there by the time
they’re denied to us.
Weapons that are denied to us.
Have you already thought about how we don’t often say our own name?
Perhaps so that it doesn’t become worn.
And others will be the ones to wear it out when we fail to reach the houses that do not exist and we’re defenseless and we’re no longer here to continue being voice.
And you’re hardly here anymore.
But things come to pass.
Because of so much living, you have died on me.
Here I say your name.