my alter ego walks with you
dressed in water lilies
soaked in scented oils
dripping honey kisses
her upper lip elated coils
the strangled words of our love
flap like fish on marble tiles
(in the violet of a banal time)
and then they die
oh, this love of ours for which
you didn’t give
give me the power to endure
the wind that’s blowing from the oceans
its colors mixing earth and sky
with magical, erotic potions.
give me the power to surrender
to violent, burning rain of kisses
under forgotten constellations
to understand what your soul misses.
finally now when I’m leaving,
give me the power to survive
the pain of Mary Magdalene
in the three days of agony
before the playing of last scene.
imagine: Irina Alexandrovna/Shutterstock
Nobody can hurt you the way you can hurt yourself.
The soil feels like wax.
Memories of you model the landscape.
On my left mountains of passion lost in a pale lunar light.
On my right cascades of your poetry ravishing the jeweled silence of the blue lagoons.
Caught in the middle, I start rotating like a hurricane.
My winds feast on the warmth of your body.
I dig into the dark ocean.
I gust through colonies of fish.
I thunder with desires.
My humid dreams spiral on your fingers like algae on red coral reefs.
Your past loves try to stop me. I roar like a lioness defending her cubs. I gust through them. They run like birds at the sound of cannon.
Can you feel me now?
give me the stars
that shine under the bridges
where poor children spend their nights
the blood that leaks from wounds of war
when the last piece of bread is turned in tar
give me the language of your alabaster gestures
the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde
the mystery of painted nudes on walls
the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing
your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring
I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.
Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.
An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.
Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.
A purple honeycreeper starts singing.
Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.
Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.
I fight back.
Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.
Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!
My breath accelerates.
I start running.
I hit a tree root.
Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.
The sky closes. Marigolds cry.
Where are you?
it rained in Nicaragua
inside a cage with fraying ties
a little girl
sat barefoot on the ground
and while you wrote
your poetry in Florence
her tears were flowing
from my eyes
imagine: Suriyawut Suriya/ Shutterstock
We were standing in the middle of the street.
The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.
I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.
Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.
Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.
I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.
“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”
Tears were falling from his eyes.
Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.
No buildings were left.
i will wait for you inside the garden of my dreams
knitting scented flowers in the loops of time
rivers of sweet memories will flow
onto the grass which grows on our past
every morning the fresh song of nightingales
will braid white roses in my silky hair
brought by the winds of the Levant
delicious smell of mint and honey on my skin
as years pass my suitors will leave
in precious vases i will soak
the words that you and I have shared
my fragile hands will build a bed for us
mixing aromas of sunsets and grains
and when in the arms of other women, you will be
a tear i will shed and then i’ll wait…
it rained sweet raspberries last night
and in the island of Barthelemy
somebody said my name’s Penelope
imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock
i want my body burned on pyre
a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea
i want to leave my grave goods for the poor
and take the pain which branded their souls
into a bursting aurora borealis fire
i want to feel the sobs of the North Pole.
i want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco
flame in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba
i want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread
drowned in the silent cries of those who are misunderstood
i want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red.
and you, the one who always claimed to know
what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul
you’ll fade into your own acoustic lamentations
the fated day when i, the queen of sufferers, proclaim
that in the sanctity of the mandala
i want to disappear without a name.
imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock