This is a good thing.
A poem from Celia Cruz:
naming
night extends itself
dark and blue
the piss smell of boxwood in the air
I held your hand
as tightly as I could
not out of fear or love
though both were there
but the comfort
that I could
you would let me
and not say
enough
and walk away
I remember how much
I couldn’t say
I’m sorry
I couldn’t say
goodbye
I remember how
under bridges
there are boats
that move jewel-like
over water
for a minute I wanted you
as completely and as fully
as wanting can be
not flood or storm but web
for a minute
I was afraid
this wouldn’t happen again
maybe I didn’t mean it
or maybe because it was real
or maybe
after a minute
you weren’t there
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2 comments:
Atoday is Federico Garcia Lorca's birthday in the little house in Fuente Vaqueros. A toast.
Gracias a Daniel--estaba pensando mucho del dia en esta fecha. Feliz cumpleanos a todos los gemelos, un brindis!
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