The Muse Writes Luis Jorge Borges A Letter On His 86th Birthday
The night has entered your eyes
with algebra and fire,
señor, so please don’t listen
anymore to María Kodama
who says you’ve buried something
already immortal in
the library of the past.
She’s only repeating what
I said about Sappho,
Dante, and Shakespeare—
that no poet can
become his own under-
taker until he’s dead
himself. That such burial
is death’s work alone
and no one else’s, especially
the poet’s. Although she walks
beside you like your mother
on the streets of Buenos Aires,
you must leave her behind
on the road that’s not a road
you’ve chosen to walk by yourself
at night with me if you wish
to see at all. You’re almost
invisible now that you’re
so famous, which María
for no reason you
can blame her, is
as blind to as you are
to a wall, unlike the others
who pass you on the street
without regard, except
for the child who watches the way
you stop at every corner
to sign the air with your cane
as if it were the title
page of a book of poems,
which it is, it is—the one
you’ve been writing for centuries
in poet years and have finished
now that you’ve come to see
so much in the light of darkness.