PRATIK LA SPECIAL : MARIANO ZARO POEM, "Diagnosis of Men as They Undress"

 

MARIANO ZARO

 

Diagnosis of Men as They Undress

 

Some men undress and cover their chests—

arms folded like the front legs of a praying mantis.

The waistband of their underwear is flaccid but the socks

are tight and print deep grooves on their shins and ankles.

Fully naked they tilt their hips backward.

They bite their nails, they have sex with their eyes closed.

They infuse you with shy, post-orgasm sweat

that smells like malaise. They build roads, bridges.

It’s customary for them to give you an expensive ring—

platinum, perhaps canary diamonds.

But the ring is always too big or too small.

You have to take it to the jewelry store to be resized.

The jeweler is clumsy, dents the metal;

and that’s all you can see now when you put it on.

 

Some men undress and tilt their hips forward.

They also walk around with their arms slightly open,

as if their armpits were irritated, had a rash.

Many of them trim their pubic hair or shave it completely.

They like mirrors, towels, soap, body lotion, talcum powder.

When having sex, they become enthusiastic, acrobatic.

They show great willingness to please.

You almost want to give them a Good job! sticker,

an A+ on the report card, when they are finished.

One day they will hold your hand (guide your hand,

to be precise) and will tell you Put your finger here, please.

Don’t be prudish, do it—one, two fingers.

They will bury their faces in a pillow.

They will cry. They will be forever grateful.

 

Some men undress and when they remove their shirt

and leave it on a chair, for example,

the shirt becomes a fountain, then a lake.

They cannot see the lake or the fountain, just the shirt.

This gives them away, that’s how you recognize them.

You can swim in the lake if you want, or cup your hands

and wash your face, drink if you are thirsty.

Sometimes they walk in the rain, alone, without hurry.

Talking with them for a while you cannot tell

if they are naked or fully clothed. Dogs lick their hands.

When they die, earth takes them in like lost children;

and you understand that they are going back home.

They don’t leave much behind—a few coins, a pocket knife,

a white handkerchief with no initials—clean, neatly folded.

 

 

Mariano Zaro is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Decoding Sparrows (What Books, Los Angeles) and Padre Tierra (Olifante, Zaragoza, Spain). He has translated into Spanish American poets Philomene Long, Tony Barnstone and Sholeh Wolpé. Zaro hosts a series of video-interviews with prominent poets as part of the literary project Poetry LA.  

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