<\/p>\n
I had a verb in my hand. It landed there spit through my insatiable tongue after nights and nights of crouching on the floor, my knees bleeding, a suffering saint, praying, waiting for miracles to appear: like tall, incendiary monuments, columns visible to the eye, touchable by hand. My Apollo certain and languid in erected muscles licking my bones into a nothingness that I adore. I, no longer waiting for the concrete, because you had given it to me through that strong body of verbs that broke my isolation into one thousand pieces. All because of those verbs, of your own making, magnificent words of doing that you let out from the depths of your dreaming entrails, that core covered by skin where the most ancient beings, the bacteria of primal life dance incessantly and produce birds and flowers and stars\u2014and that body of yours, tall, erect and strong that you extend to me in moments of utter certainty and love for all the animals of the world. The bones, the bread, all the living beings. My breathing, darling alphabet.<\/p>\n
Bring me the shadows of your own self
\nUnder that kind, soft, insecure light
\nWhere I can dream what you are and decode
\nAll the lymph nodes of your body
\nStare at your poetic undertones
\nThe languid calmness of the world
\nBefore my hands and my eyes
\nA sanctuary for meditation<\/p>\n
Bring me the light-dark luminous candor of the thing
\nThat in you murmurs and dreams and loves
\nDo not show your full self under the crude light of the day
\nIn mid-summer when dreams have no space to be detected
\nBlind that they are by the splendor of rational shortcomings
\nCome slowly, in nights clean, at dusk or dawn
\nWhen the freshness and incantations of the cosmos
\nSing eternally through the porous lines that surround your figure<\/p>\n
Bring yourself in cadent, slow moments and movements
\nWithout the harshness of the speedy and the bluntness of the luminous
\nThat affect those days without shadow
\nBe kind to the mystery that you are: seduce me peacefully, gradually, gracefully
\nIn languid undertones of browns and blacks and grey(s)
\nThe rainbows where dream nests
\nThat mysterious, mystic house where I find myself and you
\nIt is this love that I crave
\nThis light
\nThis possibility<\/p>\n
There is a grammar that keeps me down
\nI read it carefully
\nObey all its commas and full stops
\nBreaking myself in halves constantly
\nConvoluting my intended ideal
\nEven if what I want is to be a full unbroken thing
\nA brown or white egg
\nBeautiful and stunning just like the mother hen intended
\nAfter her hard labour <\/p>\n
One day I\u2019ll be able to fully un-write this grammar of millennia
\nIncomplete and contorted
\nAnd commence a treaty of true love
\nWearing sandals that make me walk for my own sake
\nI\u2019ll forget what you did to me
\nForget what men like you do to us and themselves
\nAnd move on to a new clean sphere
\nA true treaty of love
\nFeeling that wind that moves and kisses you on its way
\nTo the intended way of being<\/p>\n
One day, I\u2019ll summon the courage to recover
\nMy oval perfection
\nA new A and a new Z
\nAnd all the words that can be composed in-between
\nThat fabulous empty space
\nWaiting to be written in love, by love
\nMy ideal no longer convoluted
\nOr confused by the rhetoric that kills <\/p>\n
I\u2019ve called you inside me, deep in the furrows of my amber skin
\nWith white open vowels from the Portuguese and English alphabets
\nThat dance in me and sing letters of a future
\nI noted all the wide sounds and the endless concave caves
\nThose spaces where being can be stretched to unlimited planes
\nAnd I saw the lilies of the valley and the grass petals in the morning
\nSitting in love, waiting for the gentle sun to come and soak them up
\nDiffused love, sprinkled back, like gentle kissing rain
\nIn the rays of vernacular light<\/p>\n
And you come in with liquid hands and clean smiles
\nYou swim in me and I in you
\nWe become the things that are meant to be,
\nThat the world constantly calls for with its urgent cry for things,
\nReal things to be made
\nI\u2019ve called you inside me, and you called me inside you,
\nMy hand clean, holding onto your poles<\/p>\n
We swam, stayed in the beautiful river
\nAnd adored the gaps of the babies to be born
\nYou allowed me to speak in songs uttered in the moment,
\nBorn out of a warm water of creation
\nI woke up with you in my face,
\nMy hands sure that I was myself and that I was not alone
\nTwo different streams, both needed to find sea,
\nThe wholeness that drives us all<\/p>\n
I went to the horizon at sunset and sunrise,
\nKnelt down and prayed to your inner clean lagoon
\nAt night I climbed into our made bed and passed you my rosary,
\nImbedded in carnations and hydrangeas, laurels of the old country
\nThe petals of my Bible
\nCirculating in each of your limbs and creating hymns that enchant the sturdiest atheists
\nFor to live is to follow belief\u2014that patience that calls <\/p>\n
I was drunk with pure wine and I collided with the moons of the cosmos
\nTo be united
\nIn the primal, primal thing, that is called you and I and all the rest<\/p>\n
And then one day, I looked at you and you had disappeared
\nPerhaps had never even been there, and I a lunatic of an unfound universe
\nImagined the twinkles in your eyes and the dimples in your childish face
\nThere are thing we do not do to Love
\nMust never do
\nTo ourselves
\nTo others<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Verb<\/strong>
\nI had a verb in my hand. It landed there spit through my insatiable tongue after nights and nights of crouching on the floor, my knees bleeding, a suffering saint, praying, waiting for miracles to appear: like tall, incendiary monuments, columns visible to the eye, touchable by hand. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3147,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1754","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1754"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3149,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754\/revisions\/3149"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3147"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1754"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1754"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1754"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}