bullfighter (matador de toros) #poetry

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my dress is red

your heart is pounding

the passion of all matadors de toros

is bleeding from your arms into my veins

your eyes flame every soul in Salamanca

your fight is dance

your body burns

the bull is raging

flesh is cracking

roses from my hair fall on your wounds

stars are deaf

eternity is stopping

now i scribble words in lonely Sundays

echoes of bullfights in Salamanca

in the bells’ tolling was our beginning

and in your fight was our end

*

first published in The Literati Mafia 

 

imagination #poetry

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imagination

fecund dance

his shirt is lying on the floor

my thigh caught in the wilderness of love

his dreams rocked by the ocean’s breast

imagination

let my hands

harvest the fruits

which bloom into the estuary of his heart

let his teeth bite once again

from my fantasies tonight

 

imagination

fly blue kites

soak my body into vibrant notes

of juicy mangoes’ repertoires

imagination

heal the shadows from my neck

raise red poppies from the death

rain with sounds of crickets and guitars

for we are the children

of your breath.

 

i can’t win #poetry

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i hang flowers in the trees

i grow hands to heal all wounds

at my feet the forest sings

naked love from Saturn’s rings

rains on poppies in the fields

i move forward

and i mix

boiling teas with saps of passion

i coil laurels on your body

I knit kisses on your lips

yet…

fruits are bursting into blood

winds are choked by mounds of pyre

you’re not here

i can’t win

for the rifle will still fire

 

The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”

*

The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”

*

I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?

*

draft

 

Love Call #morning fantasy

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I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!