THE POET SEES A DEATH AND DREAMS A LIFE

THE POET SEES A DEATH AND DREAMS A LIFE

Another poet´s dead.

Another passing of
another voice that cried:
“Stop me if I separate myself from you
and use any obstacle built from grammar
to remain at a distance
from feeling the Life electric as it
tingles between us.”

For example,
if given the choice today,
I would hold a dark Galician
with forceful embrace
and lavish my verse
among the flames before us,
trembling
with the undulating sea at our back.

Oh! To be ripped from grief
and taken far above
the young tributaries below,
where rivulets
burn the face like acid
and the strings of the heart
are so horribly
pulled to stretching,
they no longer retain
the ability to rejoin Life,
nor remember the need
to sing.

Instead I would drink from thick ceramic bowls
toasting a Chilean noon with sunlight,
and fish in her eyes for safety
and promise.
We would burn together
the night jasmine
and in noble embrace
glisten our faces with embarrassing moon beams
and distant summer stars.

On the stormy eves when
shadows told stories of the dead,
we would face the dark with
writhing insouciance and sing
insignificant songs to the humid air
in patient tones and lightly made up crescendos.

The very breaths we took
would then carry us along Atlantic coasts
where horreos would retain their
grainy smells and
near the shops we´d walk barefoot on
stones Romans spat upon and before them
queimadas were celebrated and the
men found their women,
and the women, their men.

Then, before the next moon,
I would gently free myself
from her touch and
lifting my face to the sky
I´d smell the day in salt and olive oil
dipping my bread, sipping my wine
and carrying within a swollen breast that had
at least
dared to live.

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