Home

Strange word – Home,
hardly a warmth,
a belief, clear as a tear,
that someone wanted you here
when no one was really called.
A harness playing Humanness
in your most recurrent dream.
The one made of broken plates
and vows, repeating
what the splinters sighed,
calling you ‘child’
unceasingly.
The one in which you bury
the cat with flaccid birds,
get drunk on milk,
pretend that love, like ivy,
cannot stop itself.
That bone-white cage
you escaped a thousand times,
for lovers who knew not your name,
but your clandestine lust
for deviant hearts.
That dream dissolving
just before you wake up,
eyes and lips swollen-red,
halfway between promised lands
and empty skies.
Leaving beneath your ribs,
between your legs,
solely the pulse of exile.
No matter where the wars bloomed,
indoors, outdoors,
there never was any escape,
any safe return.
No prodigal orchard,
no forgiving city,
only the memory of a man
with whom you’d have gladly died,
and that you untied
– or was it the contrary?

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The Back Room

Each year now
looks like this room we have deserted,
a room the size of a bed
bathed in red light as an unborn
or, more decently- a brothel,
red enough to oulive us.
Days pile up,
these forevers we have dismissed,
barely breath-prints on windows,
all going down to smithereens
all going down to die in its heat.
I sleep there with your heart
chained to my ankle,
and the note that shaped your mouth
when orgasms eclipsed bruises.
There is no other place to breathe,
no other place to strip bare.
The cracks in the walls still own
my purest yes, my blackest no,
and the only answer is your touch,
the only cure to death is sex.
Whatever we hid there is alive,
everything is sound – Your absence
is the loudest fraud in the world.
Time, in this room, collapse
it is ruin, it is scree,
but your undying grip,
it is music inside my wrists.