I don't know if I left the window open,
or the electric fireplace on,
not sure if my name is Natalya or Navarro,
but I vaguely remember
someone calling me by one of those names.
No one found the book
Octavio Paz dedicated to me
or the notes I wrote about
the streets of Mexico City
and the person I once was
three blocks away from the taqueria.
Who can explain intermissions-
they come to your life
without warning and all you can do
is wait until it's time to start again.
Meanwhile, I feel the heat burning
on the tip of my hip-
a feeling shivering electric
on the flesh, the fever of what
I no longer know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem