Two Poems by Diego Quintero



The fall of a sound
a shirt wrapped in sweat,
the mouth the tooth
both conjugated with spasm in flesh
                                Sing my love, please sing
the flesh made for each other
inside each other.

And Mom?
And the house?

She didn’t know of singular professions;

the subtle act of bullfighting
or playing out an opera
in tiny place;
necessarily theatrical.

He finishes
what he needs to finish
and I see him get dressed calmly
in front of the mirror.

Somebody whistles
down the aisle that unites
the apartments.

I never knew how small death was,
how significant

Wyoming Blues

A prehistoric album rained
in my apartment; the sad music of the pulse
in the jugular vein,
those little spots
that traveled over him
like a galloping
while we faked shyness
before laying down—a song made against the steppe.

Every animal
impacts a liquid mass
and that mass reflects him
into the distance.

The story of a man
and another man; the overfall of marching
with fear
and not knowing who is who
under so much water.

Diego Quintero (Tashkent, Uzbekistan, 1990) is an occasional student of Literature and Philosophy at the National University of Costa Rica. He has participated in several independent cultural, musical, and literary magazines such as Circulo de poesía (México), Punto en línea (México), and Digo.palabra.txt (Venezuela). He is the author of the poetry collection Estación Baudelaire (Ediciones Espiral, 2015).

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