Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ángela García

8

I touch the breath. With my index finger and thumb I gently press emptiness. Touch refers to heat. The hand with its loose expectant fingers while the pioneering index finger and thumb, their tips almost lightly touching, drink the sensation, deceived by the indefinable contour of that which is touched. They touch the thing struggling between them, the flame, for a short while a tongue held upwards, contradicting gravity and unhurriedly taking, drinking the air while its heart waves: a transparent night. But this flame is a drop, a substance, a circle at times like the almond-shaped eye of its indigo well, so transparent. 

The fixed look in the flame builds another. One in each pupil, twins, with the same oxygen.

8

8

Toco el aliento. Con mis dedos índice y pulgar oprimo suavemente el vacío. El tacto me refiere el calor. La mano con sus dedos sueltos expectantes, mientras índice y pulgar pioneros, con sus yemas casi rozándose engañados por el contorno indefinible de lo tocado, beben la sensación. Tocan lo que pugna en medio de ambos, en ese breve tiempo: la llama, sostenida lengua hacia lo alto, contradiciendo la gravedad toma sin prisa, bebe del aire mientras su corazón ondea, noche transparente. Pero esta llama es una gota, una substancia, un círculo a veces como un ojo rasgado desde su pozo añil, tan transparente.

La mirada fija en la llama construye otra. Una en cada pupila, gemelas, con el mismo oxígeno.
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8

I touch the breath. With my index finger and thumb I gently press emptiness. Touch refers to heat. The hand with its loose expectant fingers while the pioneering index finger and thumb, their tips almost lightly touching, drink the sensation, deceived by the indefinable contour of that which is touched. They touch the thing struggling between them, the flame, for a short while a tongue held upwards, contradicting gravity and unhurriedly taking, drinking the air while its heart waves: a transparent night. But this flame is a drop, a substance, a circle at times like the almond-shaped eye of its indigo well, so transparent. 

The fixed look in the flame builds another. One in each pupil, twins, with the same oxygen.

8

I touch the breath. With my index finger and thumb I gently press emptiness. Touch refers to heat. The hand with its loose expectant fingers while the pioneering index finger and thumb, their tips almost lightly touching, drink the sensation, deceived by the indefinable contour of that which is touched. They touch the thing struggling between them, the flame, for a short while a tongue held upwards, contradicting gravity and unhurriedly taking, drinking the air while its heart waves: a transparent night. But this flame is a drop, a substance, a circle at times like the almond-shaped eye of its indigo well, so transparent. 

The fixed look in the flame builds another. One in each pupil, twins, with the same oxygen.
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