Where did you come from,
sleeping man.
What cloud dropped you,
what caravel.Who allowed you to pour out
these water lilies,
who slipped that shiny plumage
into your skin.
You carelessly alight on my bed:
a forgotten angel
imprisoned in my cabin.
I do not understand
the vastness of this man.
I can no longer sleep: my sheets
insist on being hot southern wind,
lavender flowers.
My pillow wants to fly
like a gull on the wing.
My shoes have become thorny little creatures.
And there's this naked little man
without even a fig leaf.
Why does my hand fly
to his unsuspecting whiteness,
to his sweet inviting flesh.
What a problem.
What will I ever look at again
if all I can look at is my visitor..
Where did that bush of eyebrows come from,
those two copper coins on your chest.
What cover will I seek,
if not the hair on your chest.
What glass, what kiss,
what landing without your lips,
sleeping man.
What loaf of gold
without your presence.
Ana Istarú (born 1960) Costa Rica
Translated by Victor S. Drescher
Source: Contemporary Costa Rican Poetry by Carlos F. Monge and Victor S. Drescher, Escuela de Literatura y Ciencias del Lenguaje, 2012
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