At night you would read us books until we made the story ours in dreams.
I sometimes wonder how long you kept on reading
till you realized that we had already fallen asleep,
and like those, how many other moments you gave me your love
without even expecting a memory.
Since those bedtime stories you became
my own whisperer of dreams.
Somehow, after the years, you’ve managed to keep your voice inside my ears
to the point where I sometimes find my words carefully stroking my beliefs.
My body, now trained to pick up quotes
(from books, prayers or even strangers’ conversations)
turns to its own verses for help when it gets lost.
I owe you my life, you gave me my words.
*****
A medium sized group
sings together in a room.
No, sorry.
Let me rephrase.
A group of strangers
sings together in a room.
There is no judgment
between their bodies.
Out of their ignorance
only the blind trust of a child remains.
The melody dances through them,
condensates the air
and slips out the windows
illuminating the streets.
Psst,…Quiet!
A short silence
has flooded the room.
With no rush
someone lights back the first note
and the rest endure it by joining in.
Like the fabrics of the awning
after the summer
tenderly holding the October rain.
*****
El primer día me pediste
que te explicara un secreto.
Desde entonces, supongo
que los habrás oido.
La pausa de mi respiración
cuando me lees
tus palabras a espaldas de mis pulmones.
Mis ojos barnizando tu rostro,
aplanando tus frases.
Tal vez por eso ayer,
antes de marcharte
me confesaste el mayor de los tuyos:
El miedo a explicarlos.
*****
Como ama la niebla
Entre la vida y el recuerdo
vive la niebla.
Es ella la alegoría perfecta
de la búsqueda y la perdida.
Así, a diario
a un semi-estado condensado
se condena.
Por miedo a sofocarte de nuevo
con su inestable manto
de aire y agua,
esperanza y pena.
*****
Erotics in regret
How can you not see me? I am standing right next to you.
Don’t keep dismissing my reaching hands- I’m not a ghost.
Don’t pretend you don’t feel my deep breaths against your neck.
Please,
Stop it.
As if you could hear me, you go ahead and love me. Fuck me.
To make me bite our lips again. To dig my nails under your skin.
*****
It’s our job to know
that when we walk
it’s not the simple movement of the legs
but the rhythm that our body starts
that forms the act.
That the walls of this room
aren’t the guards of our confinement
but the support needed to push back.
And that light
is not something to wait for
but to ignite.
It’s our job to hum,
when we can’t see through the dark
the song our mother sang
to close our eyes at night.
Behind every gesture
Knowing our choice:
To be alive.
*****
Empaquetando a mi abuela
Tu habitación a desamueblar,
me devuelve un viejo impulso a la blasfemia.
Paredes
Sobrecargadas de virgenes,
candelabros,
crucifijos
y silencio.
Entre ellas
las conversaciones continuan
alzadas de tono, como siempre.
Ocultando el vacío
bajo el papel de la pared.
Como esta, tantas
las costumbres aprendidas
para acallar la emoción.
Asi como el acto de empaquetar sillas
para despedir la certeza
de que me guardas un asiento
en este querido lugar.
*****
The fabrics of friendship
Slicing your last pancake
you’ll look up with confused eyes.
Why aren’t you eating?
We’ve got time; There’s no rush.
It won’t matter
whether my coffee gets as cold
as the untouched cutlery by my plate.
The evening has started to fill the words with silence and you and I, Friend,
are the weavers of hours.