By Federico García Lorca
Translated by Gilbert Wesley Purdy
No one understood the perfume
of the dark magnolia of your belly.
No one knew you martyred
a hummingbird of love between those teeth.
A thousand Persian carousels slept
in the moon plaza of your forehead,
while four nights I lashed myself
to your waist, enemy of snow.
Among the plaster and jasmine, you saw
I was a pallid branch of seeds.
I sought through my breast
to give you letters of ivory saying always,
always, always: garden of my last breath,
your body escaped forever,
the blood of your veins in my mouth,
your mouth already without light for my death.
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My Monday involved laundry and other completely uninteresting things. Apart from magnificent weather -- we had a gorgeous breeze and though the temperatures were in the low 80s, it never felt like it -- there was nothing really notable about it. I did see five bunnies in the neighborhood, but I am pleased to report that this summer, that has happened more than once! Adam had to do a mandatory drugs-and-alcohol online mini-course for the University of Maryland, which took up a lot of his afternoon, though he went to the gym beforehand and biking and hiking at Carderock afterward.
Since Adam was home in the evening, we watched The Darjeeling Limited (and short prequel Hotel Chevalier). As with most Wes Anderson movies, I think Adam liked it better than I did. The visuals as always are stunning, but the female characters are even flimsier than usual, and India apparently exists so white people can have epiphanies there. I wish Anderson would direct films written by someone else! Here are photos of the Australia exhibit at the National Aquarium, which contains many of my favorite Australians (apart from Geoffrey Rush, Hugh Jackman, et al):
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