Photo: Enrique Tessieri
The late evening streets of Buenos Aires
bleed silently
and I should be asleep and hide until day
but I can’t.
In my room, the keys of my typewriter
are razors to the touch
makng a short trip to hell and back.
The night is alost at a standstill, now
searchlights crisscross and comb the state of siege
a few high-pitched sirens singing
in the distance here and there
and I should be asleep.
Strong bangs on my door
crash open the door
and I’m cornered with four Colt 45s pointed
at my head.
“What’s the big idea?” I interject
“It’s the fight against terorism!”
“Proceed,” I state with false nationalism
evaporating into the night
without a word in my defence
except for a few high-pitched sirens
screaming here and there.
Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1977