translated by Carys Evans-Corrales
“What’s wrong here is that we don’t know
how to sell ourselves,” your fellow tenants
would always complain.
But when that guy who really had a handle on it
moved into Apartment B, fifth floor,
the whole building soon began to stone him from their little
A cowering disc. Appropriating hens.
If all of our imaginary fades away, where then
are the organs with which we forget?
To raise, it took multitudes;
to demolish: just a handful of folks.
PRETENDING THAT THE PAIN SHE FEELS IS PAIN
My looks suggest I like
things that I do not.
Everyone speaks through
As does this.
The walls of a grotto where, ten thousand years ago,
someone sullies the natural essence of the stone.
Coins, alternating current,
a girl born with beauty in her genes,
pock-marked by hang-ups.
Like an orgasm in Hedy Lamarr, like Nikola Tesla’s eyes.
A country where one needn’t be,
but can merely
A peeling away of gloves,
a touch of spice, the most prestigious
of all dubbing schools.
Capital is the nightmare
of being caught in our symbolic capacity.
The most flattering of all: mortuary makeup.
Years of work turned into equestrian granite.
An industry of poverty, wolfram in kitchen gardens.
Like an ardent body, aware but
Cheap false eyelashes, an image
identical to itself.
Like political poetry confused
with a selfie in the bathroom mirror.
The metonymy of evil.
The normative wrenched.
A set stage, a menu, an emergency escape from the fires of discourse.
Something whose roots stretch out to the air and longs
to return to the soil, once time
has elapsed since it burst into light—
like the eyes in potatoes.
The poem’s gaze is like this too:
worker ants in single file,
in timeless lines,
shreds of gestures
that look like
Read this in Galician