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)
First, one’s mind catered to the other.
Then, they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.
By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.
In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.
It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.
Yet they didn’t.
Jacques, Miriam, Miguel, and I: What can I say?
As time passed we became like tropical lianas hanging on a giant tree. We used to think that it was the tree of friendship and love.
Once Jacques said:
“It is nonchalance that destroys love and friendship.”
To which Miguel replied:
“No, it is the lack of boundaries.”
Time was going to prove him right.
“Stop it, Angelo, stop it! What did you want me to do?
Wrap myself in the in French flag and sing La Marseillaise?
Write a book called “The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold” and let the entire world know that Jacques was going to fall in love with me?
I am telling you that no matter what things would have happened the way they happened!”
I was enraged: my lips cracked, my body tensed, my dress pinching my skin like I was attacked by an army of red ants.
Miguel entered the room.
For a moment his green eyes reflected incredulity. He looked at Angelo, eyebrows raised, his left index finger pointing toward me.
“Why is Clara standing on the middle of the table?”
Ah, Miguel and that dreamy quality of his voice always bringing back our non-ending nights of love.
Angelo tried to put a rebel lock of his black curly hair back in his ponytail.
I did not move. Miguel did not take his eyes from him.
I do not know how much time we stood like this.
Finally, Angelo spoke: his voice raspy like he was awakened from a dream.
“Oh, Clara? Clara is just being Clara.”
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.
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!
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?
the juicy fruit of love lies open on a heavy silver tray: its pulp is orange, and its seeds are red
under the alabaster moon, like in the mist of secret sermons, your humid fingers design blue petals on my fragile body
drapes made from the feathers of forgotten purple honey-creepers sleep virginly into the breeze coming from the west
on checkered marble tiles cicadas sing the first Chopin nocturne in B minor
little fairies with big eyes dance tarantella in the air
i see into the purple of your lips the shadow of the woman you will love
let me watch the little fairies eating from the fruit of love
when they are done we’ll run into the meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats
there on the silky grass will bite together from the alabaster moon
and our love
into another century will bloom
I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.
Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.
An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.
Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.
A purple honeycreeper starts singing.
Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.
Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.
I fight back.
Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.
Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!
My breath accelerates.
I start running.
I hit a tree root.
Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.
The sky closes. Marigolds cry.
Where are you?
I open my eyes.
Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.
I can see you through it.
You are by the lake.
My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.
Morning dew adorns the grass.
In the music room the piano starts playing.
A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?
Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.
Silk embraced by skin.
You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.
One of your fingers touches its petals.
My pupils dilate.
I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…
I can’t hear my voice anymore.
The music hits a crescendo.
The lake freezes.
Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.
my body arches
under the weight
of your passions
like a young branch
under ripened fruit
it smells old books
rain and baked sweets
between your heart and mine
the Easter of Roses
come back to me my prince from unknown lands
where orange suns flame tops of granite mountains
your pain will disappear into the néant
i’ll read you ancient legends on the beach
in nights when mermaids’ voices crave lost heroes
for you I’ll stop the ebb and flow
i’ll make the sun to set on eastern temples
i will transform my body in a flame
in moonless nights like shooting stars
your hidden passions on my skin will glow
come back to savor ripened mango from my hands
when the piano plays nocturnal rhythms of love
when purple jacaranda is in bloom
and fresh hibiscuses sleep on my pillows
we’ll wait in silence for the skies to open
the waves will build an altar on the ocean
gold fish will crown my head like precious diamonds
in ocean’s spumes my body will be dressed
come back to me my prince from fragrant dreamy lands.