|Wheat-field with Crows|
Vincent Van Gogh
I had every intention of writing a post about an encounter I had this weekend with a family at a lacrosse tournament. The usual stuff, story-making, the unraveling of story. Remembered trauma and the surprise of affirmation. I was thinking the tiles of showers, the place where the forehead rests, the groove. I was thinking of all the years.
But it's Pablo Neruda's birthday, and there's his love poetry.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
|Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.|
|Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day|
|I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.|
|I hunger for your sleek laugh,|
|your hands the color of a savage harvest,|
|hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,|
|I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.|
|I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,|
|the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,|
|I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,|
|and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,|
|hunting for you, for your hot heart,|
|like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.|