I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass and trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.
“Clara, Miguel needs to stop. He needs to give up. Make him do it or I will.”
Nobody could make Miguel give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.
Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. At heart Miguel was Cortés. Cortés who conquered an empire. Cortés who enrolled God to help him. Cortés who destroyed and rebuilt.
Jacques had no chance.
Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my body weak, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:
“Wait, Clara, wait, you don’t know Jacques yet.”
In fact, none of us knew Jacques. Not even Angelo.
the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there
It hurts when I’m not
I ask for the help gravediggers can grant
I wrote I love you on a note that I locked
It wasn’t a snake, it was an iguana
the night the tango nuevo played its guitar
on fifteen decades you counted your prayers
my fingers were naked
my fingers were gloved
deification of the virgin nymph within my palms the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land my eyes, inheritors of light singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky your love…
continue reading with WP here
on Vita Brevis Press here.
Vita Brevis just published Pain & Renewal: A Poetry Anthology. I have two poems included: The Dark Flag of Pain and Autumn Healing.
“Pain & Renewal features a collection of incredible voices — from Pulitzer and Pushcart prize winners to brand new poets, it’s filled with moving poetry about the highs and lows of the human experience.”
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia let him drink from your lynx blood inject the rhythms of the flamenco under the coldness of his eyes tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite pour the sounds of castanets into his arms my fingers swirl the flesh of ripened olives covers the old shroud the flow of blood from the white shirt has stopped I hear his voice there is one cross and you’re my only love my body arches oils flame in my hair a Moorish verse falls from a wall covering my cries
Andalusia I kneel among your cacti fed by salt your wounded lashes resurrected him for yet another night
Thank you to Brian Geiger, the editor of Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, for publishing my piece “I’ll Return.”
(this poem was initially posted on this blog under another name)
I open my veins in warm waters
each time when you like what I write
the sound of the sands in the darkness
the eyes of the desert are dried
the midnight windows are opened
I jump like a lynx from a cage
dressed in cold winds and in black
continue reading with WP here
on Vita Brevis Press here