Desperation Is The English Way.
Estamos rotos."Tell me a secret."
"I don't have any."
"Sure you do."
"No..."
[Her secrets are locked in every graceful syllable
kept under bone and key
in the dusty corners of his larynx safebox.]
//
Tú me rompes dulce.
[She covets all the stolen seconds of secret shattering.]
Beige porcelain is her skin
which she tries to scald to perfection, to become
heartbreakingly beautiful,
to shine like the most expensive of girls.
Terrycloth fishings for the truth make her feel
loved, if not beautiful.
It's a breakfast-time ritual involving coffee stains
and bananas
and cinnamon
and foreign dish soap.
Tell me how you slept---
But she never reveals her dreams, not even
when he holds her close, a perfect
cedar china cabinet.
Morning stubble rubs her smile clean.
Oh my god, stop killing me!
For real.
He's hands and feet
constantly tanged up in her agenda,
a wild, reckless vine of cream and ivy and leather.
Every time she dies he pulls her back,
sponging bubbly mulled fear from her fizzing wrists
with the edge of one half-seductive eyebrow.
How are you REALLY?
Cool leather arms around her drowsy mind
when the air tastes like beer steins crying shame
is what she savors most.
He puffs of marshmallows and secrets untold
that hide in crevices of sort-of hidden smile lines
furrowed between I'm-too-cool-for-you eyebrows.
You're my little señorita... punk.
Artistic waffle-press hands
coax warmth to her 20-below heart
on cold mornings on the train platform, and on cold nights
on the sidewalk. He's gotta be extra careful
on the sidewalk
not to drop her, because ice shatters on pavement.
Phoenix songs keep her alive.
This is the religion of falling asleep.
He's everything she ever wanted and then some,
a cool vellum twin etched out perfect
in navy blue countour, gold accents.
Spanish lullaby is his sarcastic index finger
always joking, saving her face from being too serious.
Hey, guess what we're putting in? Eso!
She strokingly yearns to swim in the bottom of his magic
bouncing shotglass
and for years to come, every time he takes a shot,
maybe he would see, and crinkle his tissue-paper smile
around her memory, gift to himself.
Loves her soft and strong just like she wants.
Nah, man... For REAL for real.
Oh, he's got it goin' on.
//
Yeah.
What?
Okay.
//
Estoy rota un otra vez.
[She's dying a dreadfully dull, dry death and no one's pulling her away.]
He's meeting her eyes, smiling,
maybe thinking of the curve of her spine
and how she's breaking,
back is breaking,
but he can't do one damned thing.
Someday, he says, someday.
She prays for leather rapture
and shiny sports cars
for everything to be okay, to be okay,
but he doesn't do one damned thing.
Someday, she says, someday.
Anything you ever need, you know.
Blue Mexican engines jump in reverse,
his hand on her wrist gentle
in teasing, cinnamon spices mixing with
the essences of real bad dreams.
You speak real good Spanish, you know.
Fleeting touching pushes back to crisp clean-air days
when they crunch leaves on cold mornings
on the train station platform.
He cranks the radio louder and lets her slip her eyes shut.
How did it end up like this? (You know...)
She can't sing well but she sings for him.
Just one damned phoenix song.
Someday, he says, someday.
Never got the chance to thank him
for always always holding her so soft and sweet
and sensual in the hammock curve of his eyes.
Never never never.
Hot black soup and he's grinning and
NEVER
does she ever tell him
how comfortable he is.
She never tells him a thing,
not one damned thing.
Someday, she says, someday.
//
Rómpame completamente en mi miseria.
[She tallies pounds with broken shards of glass
and feeds her secrets
to the monster in the mirror.]
Poetry by MiVidaDeEpÃlogos.
Read 977 times
Written on 2006-05-26 at 02:36
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