Tiny tawny girl next door,
Watch you scrub your kitchen floor.
Doggie down there, on all four:
I can’t wait ‘til you spill some more.

Laundry day, your fragrance drifts
Through my screen: My spirit lifts.
Subtle scents, your careless gifts,
And through each one, my keen nose sifts.

Singing, humming, filled with glee:
You wash your dishes, dutifully.
I hear you, though I cannot see,
How drippy-wet and wonderfully?

Accomp’nied by Spanish guitar,
This summer day, you wash your car.
Flamenco skirt, my jaw ajar,
On tippy-toes, you’ve stretched too far!

Then one day, from the box you came,
Bearing junk mail with my name.
I quickly turned to hide my shame.
You’d caught me staring, just the same.

My name, without lifting her head,
From that misguided missive, read.
Upset?  Not yet.  She smiled, instead,
Then took me by my arm, and said,

“I must confide, my next-door boy,
I play with you: my sweetest toy.
All parts and parcels of my ploy,
I mean to share what you enjoy.

“I scrub the floor where you can see.
I perfume all of my laundry.
I softly sing each melody,
And even dress indecently.

“…But spiders cause me grievous fright!
I have a burned-out ceiling light.
So, if you can and think you might,
Come help me with my chores, tonight.”

©2Dec2017 @DracoTalpus

my grandmother
used to stand over an open flame
every cold morning.
she would fan the fire
allowing it to breath.
then she would boil the water
for the cinnamon tea.
this ritual was for  
all the men in her life.
just so they could awaken
to the smell of spice and
ignited flesh.

at least she kept warm.

strong men like to drink cinnamon tea.
they like to mix their coffee into it
every morning.
it's a beverage with double the damage.
they also enjoy dipping their tongue
in the boiling drink
so they can
sample the taste
of a woman’s burning.

my grandmother
still makes her
te de canela

every morning.

te pusiste entre
mis costillas
este día y
te quedaste ahí
al lado derecho de
mi corazón

por siempre

a plethora of oaks
timelessly alive.
our names are carved
on every single one.

a symbol of us.

Cuéntame de soledad, de amor y paz eternos.
No escondas la verdad: somos sólo dos enfermos.
Nos morimos sin cesar, cada vez y cada día,
Suspirando por el gozo de tu mano en la mía.

Déjame vivir mi sueño... Es tan dulce y profundo.
Por acá yo soy el dueño, he hallado todo el mundo.
Narra cosas que no sé, muéstrame lo que perdimos,
No olvides como fue... ¡Es real se lo pedimos!

Caminamos por el mar y volvemos por el cielo,
Encendiendo corazones, derritiendo los de hielo.
Celebramos el amor, soledad y paz eternos
Y probamos apreciar estos ratos así tiernos.

¡Nunca te olvidaré: eres fuego, luz y viento!
Siempre te soportaré: que concibes, yo ambiento.
Luchadores, se logró... Acabamos de unirnos.
Ganadores, tu y yo... Nadie puede combatirnos.

even your mother is afraid of speaking your name.
she looks at her shaking hands,
tears on her eye ducts,
lips barley parted,
and feels.

you never quite came back.

the paintings of you and her
can never describe
the burn she feels on her tongue
when she is forced to call
for you.

you are the lullaby
she sings every night,
while doused in witch hazel.

how silly it is
that even though she is
the giver of life,
she yearns for it
at every mention
of your absence.

Aquel día
a la media luz de una habitación
con el sol ocultándose detrás de las cortinas;
con mi espalda contra la cama,
tus manos en mis muñecas,
mis piernas rodeando tu cintura.
Tu cuerpo en el mío.

Aquel día, en aquella cama
entre algarabías de besos y almohadas
encontré tus ojos puestos en los míos
y una historia me contaban
sobre un hombre perdido
por gusto y con gusto,
que no sabía en qué se había metido;
que añoraba algo que no podía tener
e igual lo hizo suyo casi sin querer
y ahora está entre las piernas de esa mujer,
con su expresión desarmada
y el alma transparente
y tan resplandeciente...
En tu mirada me vi reflejada.

Fue entonces cuando noté
de siete billones de personas
vos eras a quien yo deseaba.
De siete billones de personas
vos eras a quien yo anhelaba
y en tu mirada y risa me perdía.
De siete billones de personas
vos eras a quien yo quería.
Y tal vez
no sos el amor de mi vida.
Pero eso no importa,
sos el amor de mi ahora.

there is a woman who knows more about loss
than she does of forgiveness.

she bathes every evening in warm water and salt
because she once saw el curandero prepare a bath
for the man who screamed every night
after he met the black-haired devil.
the mixture is suppose to heal.

she brushes her long thick black hair
with a wide-toothed comb.
it reminds her of the way he pulled her hair
when she would try to leave him.
it always made her come back
for more.

she rubs baby oil on her skin while droplets of water
are still running down her body.
they swerve around her chest,
clash near her bellybutton,
and sneak in between her thighs.

but even with all the salt baths and baby oil
the skin on her knees is still ashy
and dark.

she wonders if it is from kneeling too much as a child.
when she would kneel with her sister at church
rezando for the return of their fathers.
each a man who left their mother in pedazos.
they were actually praying for their mother.

or if it was from the holy act of making love.
when she would get down on her knees for him.
praying to receive more.
having his hands pull her hair,
push her closer to him,
to take him all in.

she finds herself praying for the return of her loss rather than for forgiveness every night before sleep.