…. ah, I forgot to tell you when I meet you in my dreams Arabella still sells bracelets in the silver market she asks me every time about you I lie and promise her you’ll come next time to buy another bracelet and some juicy limes
now in the silence of long purple nights my silver bracelets cannot hurt you anymore but every minute you are not with me cuts yet another wound into my soul
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
Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.
That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.
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.”
I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.
My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…
The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.
Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?
Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.
Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?