Hotel Montparnasse: Letters to César Vallejo - Paperback

You checked into room number 39 because

that's the age of the worker who dug your grave.

And because you can't bear to tell the desk clerk

she needs a zinc bathtub of warm milk to soak

her tired feet--and tired back and skull-

for at least 39 minutes.

Relax, says the aloe plant in your window.

Nothing to fear, says the chipped radiator.

Says the newspaper's wilted corpse

on the faded floral carpet. Says the shirt

hugging the back of the chair

consoling the desk gone dizzy from staring

at the many coffee rings.

Nothing to be said, says that black pubic hair

clinging to the stiff, sallow lampshade.

A hotel room with closet, bed, sink, mirror,

because here it's harder for God

to pull you back to the morgue, back

to that dreamless hole in the ground.

Relax, says the mirror, take off your clothes.

And so you do. Falling back on the clean towel

you spread on the bed, your flesh tickled

by the nappy fabric.

Room 39, you say. The black hair still clinging

to the sullen lampshade.

Your friend,