Copihue Poetry

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

The eyes of an axolotl are always open 
and black. Even when he sleeps, he does not close 
his eyes, because he is an axolotl 
and axolotls do not have eyelids. 
 
He smiles blissfully as if he were joyful 
or naïve, or simply, like every axolotl, 
he knows he will never grow old. 
He will grow smooth and young, 
heal wounds without leaving a mark on his skin, 
regrow lost fins and limbs with no scar, 
unfurl a ruffled collar of purple— 
gills around the place that axes at times cut 
but not in the case of the axolotl, 
who dwells at the bottom of a lake. 
 
But when the impossible times come, 
he has to grow up and break out of his bubble. 
He crawls out on the sand where the wind and sun 
can bite, where the landscape is abrasive 
unlike anywhere in the water. 
 
Here he watches rough cuts, 
detached limbs that never appear healthy again, and 
sutures that hold our days edge to edge, 
but gaps open and threads poke out 
from the inflamed tissue. 
 
I want to know the reason why 
we do not heal like the axolotl. 
I watch him—the black beads of his eyes 
remain void and motionless, his skin toughens 
at the sight of our scars, and I can see his eyelids grow.