The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

The most ex­pen­sive thing in the world, dear Felix, is nu­dity. And nu­dity knows my heart is a huge, beat­ing, sonorous jewel. In­side my body, there­fore, is some­thing rich, some­thing happy and full of the slaves of death.

When I dance, some­thing bru­tal hap­pens. The bril­liant world of me­tals and stones dis­ap­pears into my dream­ing limbs and be­cause I love fire things catch on fire, and then those things, Felix, they pour out light.

She was asleep on the sofa, so I watched her with love. I didn’t want to see her smile or frown, just sleep, pro­found and soft as the sea; this is how she came to me in dreams.

Her eyes fixed on mine, like a tiger, re­signed to her fate, and in­side the vague, hot air of the room some­thing new ap­peared, a meta­mor­pho­sis of sorts, her arms, her legs, they took the reins, as if all along she had some­thing clair­voy­ant about her.

Some­thing an­cient and calm like an agent of evil, sent to trou­ble my sleep, my soul, and de­range those rocks and crys­tals, so that I could never be calm or soli­tary when that an­gel was around me.

In that sleep, I swear I saw a new de­sign, the poles, the an­tipoles of the earth drunk, busted, re­signed, and that anar­chy made me feel huge and su­perb.

Lamps die. In the room where she slept, there was only a lit­tle light left, a lit­tle in­cense, in­un­dated in song and blood like a jewel left at the bot­tom of a cup, a lit­tle color un­steady as the am­ber shad­ows.

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