New Poem

Fruta

¡Amorrrr!

It does not matter
if your flesh devours my flesh,
if your blood, chemical blood,
cuts my fresh throat
and the canary of my ear.

I love you as I love
the poisoned branches that children
hide in the wide corduroy of the teacher’s suit.
I love you as I love
the multitude of crickets that knock on silver doors
in search of their long, half-eaten wings.

My love,
we all look for something.

But all we find is water sweetened
by the camel’s white torso,
a young boy who does not know the name of the turtle
and who, knowing only that he bleeds whenever he touches a carnation,
searches for terror in the old city of his dreams,
and we find, in the bright corners and in the pool of transparent shadows,
an old woman who refuses to weep with her eyes open.

The bed is a mouth of steel. Your thighs are tiny scales.
Your mouth is a school of persimmons. Your brows are my tears.
Your head is the silent cries of absinthe and the purple fingers of my forgotten hand.

The agony of your dark and worn forehead
is nothing like death.

Because the dead do not talk without the blood
of the dove that discovers the secrets of our wounds.
Because the dead must cut their throats
in order to decay in the pancreas of the duck.
Because the dead, worn by the silence of the bed
and tired from the movement of eyelids,
desperately think that the moon is an ant,
and the ant a pearl, and the pearl a naked tongue.

This is why it does not matter
if your blood is my blood.