Víctor Terán

The north wind whips through, in the streets papers and leaves are chased with resentment. Houses moan, dogs curl into balls. There is something in the afternoon’s finger, a catfish spine, a rusty nail. Someone unthinkingly smoked cigarettes in heaven, left it overcast, listless. Here, at ground level, no one could take their shadow for a walk, sheltered in their houses, people are surprised to discover their misery. Someone didn’t show, their host was insulted. Today the world agreed to open her thighs, suddenly the village comprehends that it is sometimes necessary to close their doors. Who can tell me why I meditate on this afternoon? Why is it birthed in me to knife the heart of whoever uncovered the mouth of the now whipping wind, to jam corncobs in the nose of the ghost that pants outside? The trees roar with laughter, they split their sides, they celebrate that you haven’t arrived at your appointment. Now bring me the birds that you find in the trees, so I can tell them if the devil’s eyelashes are curled.