I saw her again.
Just the same, only farther away.
Her skin, morning mist.
Her hair, water in a drought.
And those little dimples on her back —
like promises that were never meant for me.
Why show her to me, God?
Why, if she’s as distant as the sky?
But before, God, before…
before she wasn’t air, or smoke,
or that high cloud I can’t reach.
Before, she was my company at the table,
her hand just this close to mine —
close as the fire in December
that you can feel if you stretch out your fingers.
How could I forget that smell?
It wasn’t fine perfume from a bottle, no sir.
It was the smell of earth after a fresh rain,
of chamomile boiled with cinnamon —
that smell that clings to your jacket
and that you look for on the pillow before sleeping.
And that little inside sound, that quiet drum…
It was a soft galloping in her chest.
When I put my ear to her,
I’d forget even my hunger.
Now I’m lulled by the buzzing of a fly,
and the distant barking of a dog lonelier than me.
Why did you give me the memory
of the warm weight of her braid against my face?
Why did I ever know what it’s like to have honey right there, in my mouth,
if now everything tastes like ash, like gall?
I saw her again, yes.
But dreamed, she’s like trying to stop the sun with your bare hands.
And you know she’ll leave.
You know the night is a black bitch that swallows everything.
No matter how hard you cling to the mountain,
the darkness comes on time, like death.
The mountain swallows her, and you’re left trembling,
with the afterglow still hanging from your eyelashes.
Oh, woman of my dreams.
How I wish I’d never wake up.
How I wish the night didn’t exist,
and that dawn would always come with your hair tangled in mine.
But here I am,
with the rooster crowing lies
and the bed empty of you.
