The great poet was expelled from Florence.
Miguel expelled himself from himself to make room for me.
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)
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy/Shutterstock
i had to go through your soul
so i can get to mine
once in mine
i would have stayed in yours
silky sheets blushed the entire night
no space between our souls
a black lace glove, and a red rose
silhouetted against the floor
in the season of my sorrow
barren branches cry like birds
scrolls verse desperately something
who cares about verses anyway?
the hands of an old city clock just stopped
violet hills are raped by bullets
children are not told bedtime stories
hungry eyes aimed at my dress
you’re right, my love
I’m not the one
I’ve always been
for in the season of my sorrow
and something’s borrowed
Our destinies caught in the deep 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 any earthly boundaries.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)