Thursday, May 21, 2009
She opens her eyes, says:
She says she hopes she'll never know anything,
anything the way you do.
She says: I don't want to know
anything the way you do,
with that death-derived certainty,
that hopeless monotony,
the same every day of your life,
every night, and that deadly
routine of lovelessness.
All you remember of the whole affair
are certain words she said in her sleep,
the ones that tell you what's wrong with you:
the malady of death.
Soon you give up, don't look for her anymore,
either in the town or at night or in the daytime.
Even so you have managed to live that love
in the only way possible for you.
Losing it before it happened.
Monday, May 18, 2009
You say: you must be very beautiful.
She says: I'm here right in front of you.
Look for yourself.
You say: I can't see anything.
She says: Try. It's all part of the bargain.
You take hold of the body and
look at its different areas.
You turn it round, keep turning it round.
Look at it, keep looking at it.
Then you give up.
Give up. Stop touching it.
You go on talking, all alone in the world,
just as you wish.
You say love has always struck you
as out of place, you've never understood,
you've always avoided loving,
always wanted to be free not to.
You say you're lost.
But that you don't know
what you're lost to.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Night after night you enter the dark of her sex,
almost unwittingly take that blind way.
Sometimes you stay there;
sleep there, inside her,
all night long,
so as to be ready if ever,
through some involuntary movement on her part
you should feel like taking her again,
filling her again,
taking pleasure in her again.
But only with a pleasure,
as always, blinded by tears.
She'd always be ready,
willing or no.
That's just what you'll never know.
She's more mysterious than any other
external thing you've ever known.
Nor will you, or anyone else,
ever know how she sees,
how she thinks,
either of the world or of you,
of your body or your mind,
or of the malady she says
you suffer from.
She doesn't know herself.
She couldn't tell you.
You couldn't find out anything about it from her.
Monday, May 11, 2009
One evening you do it,
you sleep with your face between her parted legs,
up against her sex,
already in the moistness of her body,
where she opens.
She offers no resistance.
She opens her eyes and says:
You put your hand over her mouth
to silence her.
Tell her one doesn't say such things.
She shuts her eyes.
Says she won't say it again.
She asks if they talk about it.
You say no.
She asks what they do talk about.
You say they talk about everything else.
Everything except that.
She laughs and goes back to sleep.
Friday, May 08, 2009
You say she must not speak,
like the women of her ancestors,
must yield completely to you
and to your will,
be entirely submissive like peasant women
in the barns after the harvest
when they're exhausted
and let the men come to them
while they're asleep.
Then one night she does. She speaks.
She asks if she's managing to make your body less lonely.
You say you can't really understand the word
as applied to you.
That you can't distinguish between
thinking you're lonely
and actually becoming lonely.