In the museum there is a flint knife named
Mictlantecuhtli who rules the underworld
And one named Tlaloc who tells the rain
It is time to fall and a third whose name
Has been lost; some think it's never had one.
If your soul was unwillingly liberated
By Mictlantecuhtli you might have found
An administrative position among the dead.
Tlaloc-taken souls run errands on Earth
During the winter rains. Souls freed
By the third and sharpest flint knife must wait
For the day it finds its name.
One thing about being the son of a tailor is this:
When Death comes by he may wrap
What was you in a blanket your father
Made from scraps and remnants that looked
Like no other blanket in the world.
If Mount Fuji said
"I am tired
Of being here;
I want to be there"
Who would dare say no?
(Well, possibly
A cat. Cats
Are not afraid of mountains.)
Death expects you to type his name
In bold caps like this: DEATH.
If there's a loose button on his shirt
DEATH expects you to repair it.
When you overhear his name DEATH
Wants you to whip your head around
And strain to hear what's being said of him.
DEATH will not answer petitions beginning
"Yo, DEATH! How's it hanging?"
I have no picture of you, just one you took
Of a tall house, its windows lit against the night.
I was there; you borrowed my camera to take it
(In those days I always had a camera with me
And three or four extra rolls of film in little jars
Tied to the camera-strap).
Szymborska, I cannot read Polish
But I have a fat volume of your poems
Translated into Portuguese
Which I also can't read.
If Mount Fuji said
"I am tired
Of being here;
I want to be over there"
Who would dare say no?
(Probably a cat.
Cats are not impressed
By mountains
Or anything, really.)
