The memory of Lisa descends again
through night's hole.
A rope, a beam of light
and there it is:
the ideal Mexican village.
Amidst the barbarity, Lisa's smile,
Lisa's frozen film,
Lisa's fridge with the door open
sprinkling a little light on
this disorganized room that I,
now pushing forty,
call Mexico, call Mexico City,
call Roberto Bolaño looking for a pay phone
amidst chaos and beauty
to call his one and only true love.
Translated from Spanish by Laura Healy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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