The men your memory tallied
For Karla Coreas
By way of a prologue
Karla enters in red-soled
stilettos. She’s not Miranda. The devils wears Karla. Her gaze, coffee turned
to light, unfurls across the auditorium. All other eyes follow her as if she
were showing them the way. Upon smiling, her dimples open up two detours beside
her mouth. No one knows where they lead.
She takes the wheel. The city changes lanes.
The legend makes the rounds. They have written poems and whole books for Karla. Many a dedication scarcely conceals her name. To encode her, they moved the desire to another station and lent it somebody else’s perfume. In some verse they rendered her docile. That gave them away.
Not her legs. They come back in every book. They stretch on, a Marilyn-style gust lifts her dress up and the page loses its composure.
They say there is a dissertation: “Decoding Karla: The Muse in Contemporary World Poetry”. At first, they wanted to keep her in Latin American poetry. When they finished the table of contents, Karla appeared next to several oceans.
We’re missing the novel. Then the Netflix series. I just want to find out who dares to write the script without Karla changing the ending.
Between friends, memory does not snitch:
it gives a grade.
10
The one who kissed your eyelashes
without closing your eyes.
He didn’t get jealous of
poetry.
He knew poetry had
gotten there first.
That she sometimes demands hours that don’t come back
and she won’t stand for second place.
He didn’t ask you to set
the poem loose
to look at it.
He
kissed the mother
who learned to split sleep
and listen to her daughters
without erasing herself.
He stayed near
without sticking his name
between you and the page.
9
The one who knows
you never arrive alone.
You bear cities in your
clothing
and airports in your knees.
He didn’t ask you to
travel
with a carry-on.
He
shifted his world
so you could enter fully.
8
The one who saw you arrive
like a Botticelli Venus
that shed its birth in the sea
and came of her own will.
You crossed the room
without waiting for anyone to discover you.
He rested his hand on
your waist
without stamping his last name.
He didn’t want to return
you to the painting.
7
The one who saw you set up a festival
with your finger nails,
open
an empty box
and pull out a multitude.
He didn’t refer to
whatever kept your beat
as luck.
He saw the city learn
your cadence
and did not sign his name
where your name already was.
6
The one who read your poems
without looking for himself in them.
He didn’t turn a wound
into private correspondence.
In the face of something
scribbled out
he let the white space
carry out its duty.
He
knew erasing
was also writing.
5
The one who knew the editor.
He saw you open up a
manuscript
and find the word
that stole the air.
He wasn’t afraid
that sometime you might do the same thing to him.
He let himself be read
with no defensive prologue
or citations to hide behind.
4
The one who knew how to touch
without telling you from without.
Your back changed its
language.
The
womb stopped
reporting back.
He got lost in you
without turning loss
into debt.
3
The one who argued with you
without needing you to lose.
Words
bit each other.
One shook in a glass.
Another woke up in your mouth
with a different meaning.
They
didn’t make peace.
Afterward they sought
each other out
with the fight
still in their teeth.
2
The one who accepted
he would never know you
entirely.
Sometimes he found the
mother
who can detect breathing
at the other end of the house.
Other times, the leader
convening the entire night.
But he never learned
to live in your changes.
1
The one who called you perfect
because he never learned to read you.
He
remembered your dress
but not the title
of a single poem.
He took your courtesy as
assent.
When faced with your
authority
he wanted you to lower your voice.
Give him a point, Karla.
Just one.
Just for the record.
0
The one who wanted to take your measurements
with a measuring tape of syllables.
He measured your
forehead,
not to find you a crown,
but rather to calculate
down to the measure of his fear.
He took note of every inch of your body
as if a woman could fit
into the margin of a poem.
He added, he divided, he
corrected.
And even still
he got the scale wrong.
Zero.
For not understanding
that you were the one
who should have gone into his verses:
His words
never measured up
to you.
Don’t lend him your
eyelashes
again.
He wouldn’t know
who he was kissing
I won’t explain it to
him either.
Between
friends
numbers are enough.
(Translation by John Burns, PhD, USA)
Author’s Bionote:
*Marisa Russo (Buenos Aires,
Argentina) is an Argentine-American poet, editor, educator, and cultural
organizer based in New York City. She is the author of “El idioma de los
parques / The Language of the Parks” (2018), “Jardines colgantes “(2020),
“El cielo comienza en las raíces”
(2021), “La joven ombú / The
Ombú Girl” (2025), and “Estado
de intemperie” (2026). “El idioma de los parques”, which received an Honorable Mention
at the International Latino Book Awards, was translated into Italian as “Il
linguaggio dei parchi” (2024)
by Emilio Coco. Her poetry has appeared in books, anthologies, and literary
publications in several countries, and her work has been translated into
different languages. She is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Nueva York
Poetry Press, co-founder and co-director of Nueva York Poetry Review, and
founder and director of Turrialba Literaria in Costa Rica. She has been invited
to participate in poetry festivals, international book fairs, conferences,
readings, and literary encounters throughout the Americas and Europe. Russo
holds an M.A. in Hispanic and Peninsular Literature from Hunter College and is
a doctoral candidate at Universidad La Salle in Costa Rica. She currently
teaches at Hunter College and The City College of New York, both part of the
City University of New York (CUNY), as well as at a New York City charter high
school. She previously taught at Barnard College.
For Karla Coreas
She takes the wheel. The city changes lanes.
The legend makes the rounds. They have written poems and whole books for Karla. Many a dedication scarcely conceals her name. To encode her, they moved the desire to another station and lent it somebody else’s perfume. In some verse they rendered her docile. That gave them away.
Not her legs. They come back in every book. They stretch on, a Marilyn-style gust lifts her dress up and the page loses its composure.
They say there is a dissertation: “Decoding Karla: The Muse in Contemporary World Poetry”. At first, they wanted to keep her in Latin American poetry. When they finished the table of contents, Karla appeared next to several oceans.
We’re missing the novel. Then the Netflix series. I just want to find out who dares to write the script without Karla changing the ending.
Between friends, memory does not snitch:
it gives a grade.
The one who kissed your eyelashes
without closing your eyes.
That she sometimes demands hours that don’t come back
and she won’t stand for second place.
to look at it.
who learned to split sleep
and listen to her daughters
without erasing herself.
without sticking his name
between you and the page.
The one who knows
you never arrive alone.
and airports in your knees.
with a carry-on.
so you could enter fully.
The one who saw you arrive
like a Botticelli Venus
that shed its birth in the sea
and came of her own will.
without waiting for anyone to discover you.
without stamping his last name.
The one who saw you set up a festival
with your finger nails,
and pull out a multitude.
as luck.
and did not sign his name
where your name already was.
The one who read your poems
without looking for himself in them.
into private correspondence.
he let the white space
carry out its duty.
was also writing.
The one who knew the editor.
and find the word
that stole the air.
that sometime you might do the same thing to him.
with no defensive prologue
or citations to hide behind.
The one who knew how to touch
without telling you from without.
reporting back.
without turning loss
into debt.
The one who argued with you
without needing you to lose.
Another woke up in your mouth
with a different meaning.
with the fight
still in their teeth.
The one who accepted
he would never know you
entirely.
who can detect breathing
at the other end of the house.
convening the entire night.
to live in your changes.
The one who called you perfect
because he never learned to read you.
but not the title
of a single poem.
he wanted you to lower your voice.
Just one.
Just for the record.
The one who wanted to take your measurements
with a measuring tape of syllables.
not to find you a crown,
but rather to calculate
down to the measure of his fear.
He took note of every inch of your body
as if a woman could fit
into the margin of a poem.
And even still
he got the scale wrong.
Zero.
For not understanding
that you were the one
who should have gone into his verses:
never measured up
to you.
again.
who he was kissing
numbers are enough.
(Photo by Luis Laro Rodríguez)