- Of Illusion
You wrote: D e s i r e
in the tablet of my heart
for days and days
crazy aromatized and sad.
- Of Night
In the loving night, I grieve.
I pity his secret, my secret,
I interrogate him in my blood for a long, long time.
He doesn’t answer
and does like my mother, who closes her eyes without listening to me.
- Of Goodbyes
It’s not to be said.
It comes to our eyes,
to our hands. Trembles, resists.
You say you’ll wait―you wait― from then until … .
And know goodbyes are useless and sad.
Sharpened in the light,
like a sunrise doctors itself in water,
I look at how you lean on the magnet
of your own shadow, as if you were a dream clock
in the sweaty age of the planet. You are a fire cloud
for the dolphin’s plumage, the scar that travels
from the nerve track of insomnia
to the sulfur eyelid of an unclaimed god.
I am the man, the throbbing eye
in harmony with my uproar.
An incurable tenderness suffocates me
with the hands of oblivion
because I speak only to the crowds
of your name. I am inside the small cavity
of your dust with no possibility of a return,
I look at you with the wise
inconstancy of oil and vinegar.
I am the man,
Written on the Breath of a Crystal
My faith, pregnant with black hens,
advances toward water urgently hitting
the aftermath of time. I’m the feeble god
that scratches the weight of terror.
Here the afternoon becomes an ulcer
but I like it because it’s in the latitude
of suckling knives, which are the skin
of the dream in which you name me.
Look at how this love of wires and equinoxes
digs sea and sea, shovel and word.
I own a caterpillar and my Quevedian faith,
fertile and hairy as peace in a prairie.
This faith snores when it talks about your absence,
when it caresses the teenage udder of vinegar
at the foot of bravura.
Light creaks while I sing
to the feline heart of your number,
and my pencil trickles to the bad meat
of knowing who I am,
the open window to the muscle of a scream.
Clot, kiss and faith,
long-lived water in absent lightning.
Here my terrible and polymorphous heart
loves you in the simple milk of exploding pain,
tooth of salt, kidney of barefoot smoke,
constant marrow of the flame.
Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two time Pushcart nominee, a four time Best of the Web nominee, and a 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have been published in hundreds Journals and Anthologies. He is currently working on his first full length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.