foto 8

the chiaroscuro approach to your fate
positions a remnant of your profile
mirando para siempre hacia el desierto
still locked en la arrogancia
of a will who believes
it’s at peace with itself

in the blackness apenas se ven las nubes
bunched together para reventarse
en una lluvia violenta

me dices
con una taza de te de manzanilla
que soñaste a shower of cluster bombs
worming through the huge stillness
of a moonless night

who was dropping the bombs

no importa
the world is full of hombres despotas
que odian el desierto

who did the bombs kill

no se it could’ve been you or me

were you afraid of the bombs

no i was very angry at them

the bombs or the men
who dropped them

actually i was still angry at you

why

because you’re so incomplete
and you can’t see it

who’s perfect
but you know the real problem
is your obsession to recreate me
in your own image

you never make any sense

are you still angry at me

i’ll always be angry at you
there’s no going back
on the decisions i’ve made

a speck of light flutters
off your iris

i can almost smell the sand
that will never be wet

destiny is at work
me dices
and my destiny’s not with you

i have trouble seeing myself
without you
but i suppose i’ll get used to it

you’re so casual

and you’re so angry

i’m angry at the lost years
i could’ve written novels

but you were always too busy drinking

it helps my thinking
but you’re fucked up
and can’t understand

you’re the best i’ve ever known
at rationalizing

you’re so small-minded
why didn’t i see it from the beginning
there was an instant
when i actually thought
we could’ve conquered
the whole literary world

you’re drunk

and you’ve always been fucking scared
of success
pero lo que pasó pasó
and now i’m at another level
you say
turning towards the desert

i take long deep breaths
and my mind intertwines with the darkness

whatever happens siempre te amaré

mejor ama este desierto
que es el espejo de mi alma
y ahora vete a casa a dormir querido

si deveras me amas como dices vete
vete para siempre

y me besas

envuelves mi cara con tus manos
then push your tongue
down my throat

as i leave my hot and dry room
that’s turning me into an insomniac
siento el sabor de tu boca
y deseo la profundidad de la noche

before I close the door
i notice for the first time
that the sand is undersexposed
and then i feel
the first drops of an icy rain

22 enero 91

Cecilio García-Camarillo

This poem is taken from García-Camarillo’s FOTOS published by Mano Izquierda Books.