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Salto <strong>del</strong> Ciervo / Sharon Olds / Traducción de Natalia Leiderman y Patricio Foglia<br />
crazy<br />
/Stag’s Leap, 2012.<br />
I've said that he and I had been crazy<br />
for each other, but maybe my ex and I were not<br />
crazy for each other. Maybe we<br />
were sane for each other, as if our desire<br />
was almost not even personal—<br />
it was personal, but that hardly mattered, since there<br />
seemed to be no other woman<br />
or man in the world. Maybe it was<br />
an arranged marriage, air and water and<br />
earth had planned us for each other—and fire,<br />
a fire of pleasure like a violence<br />
of kindness. To enter those vaults together, like a<br />
solemn or laughing couple in formal<br />
step or writhing hair and cry, seemed to<br />
me like the earth's and moon's paths,<br />
inevitable, and even, in a way,<br />
shy—enclosed in a shyness together,<br />
equal in it. But maybe I<br />
was crazy about him—it is true that I saw<br />
that light around his head when I'd arrive second<br />
at a restaurant—oh for God's sake,<br />
I was besotted with him. Meanwhile the planets<br />
orbited each other, the morning and the evening<br />
came. And maybe what he had for me<br />
was unconditional, temporary<br />
affection and trust, without romance,<br />
though with fondness—with mortal fondness. There was no<br />
tragedy, for us, there was<br />
the slow–revealed comedy<br />
of ideal and error. What precision of action<br />
it had taken, for the bodies to hurtle through<br />
the sky for so long without harming each other.<br />
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