by Beatriz Hausner
[after Rosamel del Valle]
He will come, one thinks, and the visitor arrives. He opens the door. I take out my needles. It would be useless to say that I sew myself to him because I have yet to meet his true heart, feel it like fruit that is offered, rendered liquid in a clear glass. There are his memories and there are my memories. Perhaps we are to stitch them together and display our joined selves to the judges in the audience. In a city like this one, before night falls and the colour of our blood changes to a darker hue. A spectacular meeting by all accounts, with our attending limbs growing wilder as the ghosts of living and dead singers crowd our senses. He speaks in silence, echoing joint performances of times past when we were apt to raise our legs in tandem and ride out the music of the heart. And yet he does speak the language of the worm in the fruit. Words spoken by the wind sweeping over expanses of prairies where original man is bound with sinew, his ear sewn to the earth by the invisible hands of the Great Soundmaker.
