The great poet was expelled from Florence.
Miguel expelled himself from himself to make room for me.
Self-sacrifice.
I melted into his being like an enormous orange sun into dark, desert sands.
Neither of us saw the eight bad omens of the conquest.
Our bodies were flaming mightily in the Aztec sky.
That inky night the fire of our flesh destroyed the temple of Huitzilopochtli.
What have we done?
*
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
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there was a field of poppies
maybe a meadow of cherries
or maybe it happened right by the sea
mama was pregnant
thrills of house sparrows
rested on her heavy breasts
moons and stars around her waist
and nobody heard
what the gypsy girl said
her voice was soft
her lips
strawberry taste
winds playfully ruffled her shiny dress
and mama left
believing i would be born under the brightest star
i would conquer worlds from near and afar
yet the gypsy girl miscalculated by one grade
and fated me to love you till the end
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i had to go through your soul
so i can get to mine
once in mine
i wish
i would have stayed in yours
silky sheets blushed the entire night
at dawn no space
between our souls
you laugh
i cry
a black lace glove, and a red rose
silhouetted against the floor.
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who are you?
which gale winds have blown you here?
which fallen saint showed you the way?
besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries
lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece
virgin thighs ferment inside your blood
scared azaleas tremble on my pillows
step in my room
and know no fear
unravel poems from your battered heart
scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant
weave lies into the brocade of my sofas
make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up
*
let’s dwell in silence for a minute…
then tell me how you landed here
and who are you
my darling sonneteer?
draft
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at the edge of winter
bridal chambers cry
roasted chestnuts crack
in the frigid streets
days inside my soul
come and go like ships
broken hearts lament
right at my front door
did i leave you there?
see,
i can’t remember
what i’ve done with you
at the edge of winter
a tree is sick with flu
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“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”
Lawrence Durrell, Justine
*
Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.
During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.
Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.
A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.
*
In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos. We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.
*
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
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i miss you
like a little poor child
misses his home destroyed by war
like giant wounded albatrosses
miss their flights above blue oceans
like thirsty Bedouins miss water
like ancient swords miss their masters
like in the days before the resurrection
his followers missed Him
i miss your eyes
i’ve never seen
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Exiling ourselves from ourselves. What better definition of hell is there?
Excerpt form the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
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He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.
I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.
On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.
Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
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