Sunday Morning

By Raúl Zurita

Translated By Anna Deeny Morales

XXXVIII

Over the cliffs of the hillside: the sun

then below in the valley

the earth covered with flowers

Zurita enamored friend

takes in the sun of photosynthesis

Zurita will now never again be friend

since 7 P.M. it's been getting dark

Night is the insane asylum of the plants

XLII

Enclosed with the four walls of

a bathroom: I looked up at the ceiling

and began to clean the walls and

the floor the sink all of it

You see: Outside the sky was God

and he was sucking at my soul —believe me!

I wiped my weeping eyes

LVII

In the narrow broken bed

restless all night

like a spent candle lit again

I thought I saw Buddha many times

At my side I felt a woman's gasp for air

but Buddha was only the pillows

and the woman is sleeping the eternal dream

LXIII

Today I dreamed that I was King

they were dressing me in black-and-white spotted pelts

Today I moo with my head about to fall

as the church bells' mournful clanging

says that milk goes to market

LXXXV

They've shaved my head

they've dressed me in these gray wool rags

—Mom keeps on smoking

I am Joan of Arc

They catalog me on microfilm

XCII

The glass is transparent like water

Dread of prisms and glass

I circle the light so as not to lose myself in them

Copyright Credit: Republished with permission of University of California Press, from “Sunday Morning” from Purgatory by Raúl Zurita. Copyright © 2009 by Raúl Zurita. Permission conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.

Source: Purgatory (University of California Press, 2009)