You must not think that what I have

accomplished through you

could have been accomplished by any other means.

Each of us is to himself

indelible. I had to become that which could not

be, by time, from human memory, erased.

I had to burn my hungry, unappeasable

furious spirit

so inconsolably into you

you would without cease

write to bring me rest.

Bring us rest. Guilt is fecund. I knew

nothing I made

myself had enough steel in it to survive.

I tried: I made beautiful

paintings, beautiful poems. Fluff. Garbage.

The inextricability of love and hate?

If I had merely made you

love me you could not have saved me.


Frank Bidart | The Ghost, 1939

Juana Olga Barrios | Elena, 2006