Published: Thu, October 12, 2017
World | By Tasha Manning

Project MUSE - From Litany Enel Huerto, and: From Litany in the Garden

Project MUSE - From Litany Enel Huerto, and: From Litany in the Garden

FROM LETANIA ENEL HUERTO

With music by Alejandro Folgarolas

II. Limonero

I think of you, and a trisyllabic meringue fills my mouth, a ripple of mantilla, veil, membrane in the background. Because citrus zest has no par. Poor clear beat to the point of nougat: it would be no more than that without sugar, and in such a company it deserves an award. Acid dudes inside, crust at a time background and shape, perfect alliance of orange blossom, better than orange. It is everywhere. I throw nuggets, grow something out of the ordinary, and fill. My glaze of lemons that did not exist until I arrived. Your body of desire and destiny. And then, snow the same. Not ice cream. Never, not by sight, cold latitude. That is to say:

Merenguecon a pizcaverdosa, yellowish, very fine powder that makes vivacañaverales, wind sugared to the nougat point. Andean peaches in the mouth: eat the nievede peaks, do not quench thirst, only Be free in the company of soft, bittersweet ice. LITANY IN THE GARDEN

With music by Alejandro Folgarolas

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II. Lemon

I think of you, and the foamy syllables of a meringue fill my mouth, and beneath it the flowing wave of a mantilla, a membrane, a veil. Because the grating of citrus is peerless. Poor egg whites beaten to stiff peaks: sugarless they would be no more than that, but in such company they scale the heights. Acidic wedges within, a rind that is both form and substance, perfected union of lemon blossom, finer than orange. You find it growing everywhere. I scatter little pips and something grows to an outlandish size. My ravine of lemon trees that were not there before I came. Their body of desire and fate. And later, ices made from them. Ice cream, no. Never a trace of frozen latitudes. Which is to say:

IV. Cafeto

The crimson-scarlet-brown glow of his golden dream is contented. A coffee plantation in the palm of your hand. Not trees, shrubs visible from any window, in the ravine, at the bottom of it all. A green ceiling bottle, dense, with small pupils vivísimas by thousands. May the day come, the majority, in which the grain can be harvested and not dried in solitude, in the organism of squirrels, tlacuaches, badgers, cacomiztles, foxes and other natives. Jaculatoria: be a chalice that no one dares to take away from me, liquid aroma of privileged, narcotizante elíseo, of strange pagan origins: the Sierra Lacandona. They arrived (as) as a gift. They have survived my carelessness, my brink of death, my quarrels. They listen to the flow of the very near rainy river, hence the darkest and most fruitful fruit. This will remain for ever. Like L.'s blood on the terrace. Although they demolish the house. That is to say:

Scarlet crimson glow, golden brown dream.Arbustos behind the window, deep ravine in my life.Iris, corneas per thousand.Mayoría of grain age, Nourished by the polvode of skeletons.Caliz de cieloo river vapor.Itcured as the bloodindeleble in the foundations. [End Page 124]

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