Thursday, April 17, 2014

Sabel

Aquel banco, aquel banco donde la ternura
trenzó una alcándara nacarada
flota ahora silencioso
sobre el cortejo

Are you still there? I need you, Jaime. Perhaps you can’t understand it, as I don’t understand now your irritated eyes, your clenched hands on the table. Why don’t you hold me? I want your warmth in all of me. Perhaps you don’t realize it. As you didn’t notice my eyes glazed with emotion and placid effort the day we made love, sweetly and outrageously, for the first time. Only my eyes were able to thank you for that instant of extreme voluptuousness. 
Come closer, Jaime. I know you cannot hear me, but look at my eyes. I feel such a bleak happiness. Forgive me for my whim of loving you so intensely and for my cowardly escape. Forgive me that life was not loyal enough to me, and that I had believed we were just playing some futile exorcism. Forgive me, please, my lifeless gaze, my inert mouth and this position of my body that incites an endless hustle among the nurses, the crispation of your fingers, Bercia’s tears.
It was the pain. I knew that infinite pain inside would have this face. Do not worry; I no longer feel it. I am happy like that morning that rained so much as we promenaded, that we decided to take shelter under the stagnant water of a fountain. “So we get soaked once and for all.” It was funny to see your beard with tree leaves and straws. Then, you were and elf and I, a nymph. “Let’s see who splashes the most.” That’s what we told the policeman who stopped us; and then let us go when he noticed your South American accent. 
Or when I told you one night about that film that impressed me so much, with monstrous worms crossed the desert, in a quest for water. My fingers roamed the dunes of your hair, in search of the life-giving substance. Five worms desperately chasing the sweet water of your mouth. By a happy transfer, the worms’ mouths were always my mouth; and, the sought after water, the breath on your lips, the exciting and pinkish moisture of your tongue. 
Always our disheveled bed exuded our sap; actually, the entire house, because there were no corner that didn’t hear the Babel-ish mix of obscene words and longing gasps that you called “our own Old High German.” 
I would say no more, Jaime. But you, didn’t you ever think about the cold? It was something that was there. On the other side of our caresses, next to that phrase so yours that hardened my flesh “you are my woman.” Each shared orgasm was the presage of an irreducible solitude. We didn’t realize it either the day I woke up crying. I had a dream; I didn’t know what it was. I was transfixed by an immense sadness. You tried to console me. You spoke of excursions, of intimate places your discovered where we could make love. You were smiling, but we were alone, Jaime. I didn’t want to believe it and, to conjure the premonition, I asked you for chocolate. Remember?

We laughed and continued, blind and happy, towards the inevitable. Later came the lacerating pains of childbirth. I know my screams horrified you. The aseptic and dead smell and the hallway lights, like an endless gallery, terrified me. There is no longer any smell nor lights. There are no galleries, and I am afraid. Are you there, Jaime? I am very scared and cold. I am cold…
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