Eliane Marques

1

If of slippers-on-shoulders the fault of swelling-feetthose a-balancing on graveyards of waterand commonly were called plants of a platethe same (feet) that formerly clung to sailsof the boats(as muezzins on top of some minaret)when the come-and-go of thighs the heating of the firewhen the gale the skirts downside upand the bee the shielding the hivestinginga-rustingthe nostrils stoned of baroque saints

Ought to belittle the thingstame them homely as chickens or dormiceought to belittle the stufftame them sleepy under the muteness that reaps the motion of the facetake them as water as the tombs of aarawelo

For the hedge is kept as a jailor against the well                the stones against the leaves                and the hole where they drowned on the other street

What other well they would have to burn with the weight of their    shadows?

Let us time our clocks then with the clock of the wellthe toes unused to the slippersthey still spin on the poops

2

Though a fistful of their "not so tame" hair on the silver traythere beside the marketplace where the sawdust joins the measure of    the oystersin a chit-chat of ninguneos as who will lose the suede bootsin a rustling of slips as if the waist of "mammy" herselfcome and go as if gone foreverand threw themselves hand-in-hand no parachutes from the top of the    Eiffel Towercome and go                for not even in the tomb of no juliet

they shall return tomorrow        howeverand after tomorrow            howeverto gum the ground with its loadsfor them to rise as the fenced irokothat one never violated by the wind time gesture

they shall return tomorrow        perhapsand after tomorrow            as wellfor the route (the ancient one) is nailed in the rockas if chameleons whose feet tested the hardness of the bush

                    as if such a thing was the wholeand not a world of rivers waters broken bewitched

3

The shadows unboned by the hawk keeping the keythey would probably do well in cutting them even before the ceremony    of firebut it doesn't matter, cause wherever it fallsthe mandrake is bornthat's why its root bemoans when plucked outthat's why iron hammering before it cools results in hardnessfrom the crumbs of these arms that don't rest on the tablenor wrap up about a shawland yet they're armsthat point to the gloom of the stewpotsthat flap the smoke of the cookersarms whose nails were earthedarms that could not malingerthat went by without tea at five cookies piesand dread the laughter of those who walk with the bottom of the    trousers rolledand dread the laughter of those who go about with hairs on armsand arms full of mandrakesand arms full of mandrakessince death    a bird

4

Dozens at the ready for the beheadingThe rainboots nailed to the narrative of knives                held facing the face

So the possession of the ground for the seashells                    See?Here the firstborn with an elastic neck and snails in the mouthInsists that it scissors off the hair under the light of the buffalo on the    savannahAnd has my eyelashes in the shadowWhen the wax in his ears up to the remote dam            Omi osun or sokoto    I'll call you Afolabe

But here the firstborn with gum in his throatOn the third rank of the embankment (top-bottom)The beheading even whiterSharpened the sword of the rings as if goose feet                    See?

The beheader (in plainclothes)—hanging from the bluntest    commanding voice—Is jubilee, but not tiresiasIt was known that such a barber kristallnacht tachac tachac tachac

Well, it's accepted that small (no less than a meter and a half)But the knife will always be flame

A howl at the cottony restraints and at the buttons of their bootsThe secret will make...