by Rafael Pérez Estrada

    Translated by Steven J. Stewart

    One of her nipples was red， tepid¹， carnal； the other， blue， looked

    made for death's caress². They also brought to mind the luxuri-

    ous faucets³ of a porcelain⁴ tub.

    There's a story of a woman who was devoured⁶ by the moon. It's

    said that her cries were made of silver.

    Never write the words "tiger" and "dove" in the same line， for

    the first may devour⁵ the second.

    I was fascinated by the cloud the farmer kept anchored to the

    door of his shack⁷： "It's very docile，" he explained， "and we milk

    it three times a week. That's all the land needs."

    I knew that he had assassinated⁸ the sea， for his hands were

    stained blue.

    "That swan is a rapist！" the frightened girl shouted at me， point-

    ing at the erect⁹ neck of a ferocious¹⁰ swan. And I， who through

    some strange interference shared her dreams， proposed at that

    instant that we exchange nightmares.

    The girls came running： "The sea， the sea！" they shouted.

    "There's a wave made of gold！"

    I asked her to， I asked her like a child asking for the impossible： she

    took off her shoes and clothes and walked all night long on the sea.

    It was a forest of infinite trees， and each tree had a swing， and

    in each swing was a dead child waiting to be resurrected.

    A boy whose eyes were darkening asked me， "When I die， will

    the sea cease to exist？" I chose not to disillusion¹¹ him.

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