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Salto <strong>del</strong> Ciervo / Sharon Olds / Traducción de Natalia Leiderman y Patricio Foglia<br />
when it comes<br />
/Blood, tin, straw, 1999.<br />
Even when you’re not afraid you might be pregnant,<br />
it’s lovely when it comes, and it’s a sexual loveliness,<br />
right along that radiant throat<br />
and lips, the first hem of it,<br />
and at times, the last steps across the bathroom,<br />
you make a dazzling trail, the petals<br />
the flower–girl scatters under the feet of the bride. And then the colors of it,<br />
sometimes an almost golden red,<br />
or a black vermilion, the drop that leaps<br />
and opens slowly in the water, gel<br />
sac of a galaxy,<br />
the black–violet, lobed pool, calm<br />
as a lake on the back of the moon, it is all<br />
woundless, even the little spot<br />
in jet and crimson spangled tights who<br />
flings her fine tightrope out<br />
to the left and to the right in that luminous arena,<br />
green upper air of the toilet bowl,<br />
she cannot die. There will be an egg in there,<br />
somewhere, minute, winged with massive<br />
uneven pennons of serum, cell that up<br />
close is a huge, sodden, pocked planet,<br />
but it was not anyone yet. Sometimes,<br />
when I watch the <strong>del</strong>icate show,<br />
like watching snow, or falling stars,<br />
I think of men, what could it seem to them<br />
that we see the blood pour slowly from our sex,<br />
as if the earth sighed, slightly,<br />
and we felt it, and saw it,<br />
as if life moaned a little, in wonder, and we were it.<br />
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