In that sunny room, where our cruelty
stood unveiled, and all knives broken,
where I stopped thinking
it could have been different
or unrestricted, or incandescent,
where I stopped hoping
you could have stopped me,
when the first bloom died,
in that unnamed clinic,
the moment came when
I had too much of knowledge,
too much of truth,
too much of clarity,
too much of comprehension of the future
and my heart, red and cold, clotted.
It was full of music,
something you played me
something nightly, I lost it all.
Still knotted to my memory
it hung there,
dry as a fossil
among photographs of Paris.
Later, as you laid estranged,
in some eyeless bed,
sick of your own caress,
you sent me a pomegranate
full of morning heat
spilling new blood cells
on my pale navel.
With an analytic glance,
I dissected its inside,
the countless seeds, crimson eggs
and their various transparancies.
Then I closed my eyes.
Soft waves of music rushed in my veins.
Well, it was late.
What can I say ?
Love is a dark fruit.
You can have my head on a platter,
I will execute the dance
and the dancer.
In this red swarm
one beat was my own.