The Poet
The Poet We met him the previous day in the park But didn't have bills small enough To pay him for the poems he offered us The next morning of course he wasn't there But then walking back home there he was He looked like Bolaño had Bolaño never written Novels never gotten sick never left Mexico City He wore round glasses like the kind That prop open books in photographs Meant to dramatize the scholarly mess Of the writer's desk and he had long hair And bad teeth held in his jaw with wire And a face ravaged by cigarettes He asked did we want a poem about love We said he could give us a poem about anything He gave us a poem about a house that was said To be possessed by witches and another About having to say goodbye to a lover And another with no title which was the best I remember only the first lines they went Death I am afraid I am not a courageous man My hands are empty I am only pretending We asked him why he doesn't sign his name To his poems he said that would be vanity My friend translated one of my poems for him A poem about flour and salt he listened Attentively nodding as if he knew it already Then said how about this instead I have a little bit of flour left so I think to myself Should I make some tortillas or should I make some bread for days I keep thinking What to do with this flour tortillas or bread Tortillas or bread until a stranger comes Up to me and says The flour is not yours Let it be what it is let it just be flour