… (cuando no queda otra voz)

shelter, not asylum
my body asked of you
a trusting hand beneath
your white shirt,
or mine:
the quiet nest where
cities, politics and genealogies could be kind
(…kindly taken by surprise)
or just us
just us

–

our belongings
the gentle cups and pillows we bring with us
the old sweater
and new towels:
these should be the words at dawn,
the choir at night,
two bodies,
two rings,
the holy spirit of domesticity,
its cavalier’s heart,
silent,
steady,
when words go adrift

I so know the whisper that could turn me into
stone or skin
but upon us,
this fate rests

—–

damage,
this cold surrender,
your void eyes,gods afar
a drawning voice lingers
foreign
so foreign

under iced lakes, yet tenderly
we
walk
on

—–

fairies, angels
the will of love can be glitter, spells,
silk
or
paper mache
sometimes
my soul can touch all things, softly
but this garden, our home,
she and I,
so fiercely will defend

–

Advertisement