She must be milked every morning so that she will produce milk, and the milk must be boiled in order to be mixed with coffee to make coffee and milk. —Gabriel Garcia Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude Imagine the years being sucked out of you, the losses so numerous you counted gains instead: the shiver of holy water, your quinceañiera, burnt cedar, the faith in the cross- town taxi in Mexico, not knowing derecha from izquierda. Think of all the shattered glasses, cursing the sky, women you keep yearning for. You taste the slow arrival of the moment only to watch it fade anxiously. Now think of absence, staring at some beast in a field and saying never have I seen this thing in front of me. When the cow moos you will understand the simple lexicon of the green in its mouth, the dynamics of the jaw like nothing you can’t recall, have never seen. And what impossible eyes--unlike yours-- swelling with your losses and successes; they too are losses, ready to escape your skin like the sweets of a piñata, the dull thud of the instant still there, when you realize that to know this beast by name is to lose this beast, lose it hopelessly in the catcombs of names for other things: the coffee bean, your blood, the ripe guava, penitence, the left bank of the river, crumbling, where you learned cow from awkward profile, milk-heavy, its one eye, reflecting.
It’s the consistency of flesh that drives us, how a pome ascends the stairs of its origin. A boy shakes pears down off the higher branches as his friends scavenge underneath, groping for the thing necks. If you find yourself holding one, hungry, if that’s the word, then you are testament to what festers in its fattened lobe like a ball of sugar bees. Here is Augustine, his thin fingers tearing into skin that barely holds the pulp around its core. Poised nudes forever in their sunny chairs, they await whatever plucking comes. When they’re eaten with darkness plunging always further into their hearts, a few seeds ache then swell black as appetite. Or as their profile imitates a lover’s falling breasts, we take them in as we do our own bodies, as infants do, wanting anything to give our wanting form.