Jaime Priede

¿Quién no se sintió alguna vez desarmado ante la poesía que exige mucho menos de lo que nos entrega con absoluta generosidad?

celebrar la cotidiana inmediatez de sentirse vivo.

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van. / you find it at the side of the road / and bury it. / you feel bad about it. / you feel bad personally, / but you feel bad for your daughter / because it was her pet, / and she loved it so. / she used to croon to it / and let it sleep in her bed. / you write a poem about it. / you call it a poem for your daughter, / about the dog getting run over by a van / and how you looked after it, / took it out into the woods / and buried it deep, deep, / and that poem turns out so good / you’re almost glad the little dog / was run over, or else you’d never / have written that good poem. / then you sit down to write / a poem about writing a poem / about the death of that dog, / but while you’re writing you / hear a woman scream / your name, your first name, / both syllables, / and your heart stops. / after a minute, you continue writing. / she screams again. // you wonder how long this can go.