Women’s lives
by necessity and survival
a mosaic of untold moments
those we’ve chosen
those chosen for us.
And now,
you ask me to keep our love hidden.
It is risky to ask a poet to keep a secret.
We make truth telling a bit of a habit
find just the right time
just the right way
to release
unseen
forbidden
intimacies
that once bound us.
We tell when we’ve swooned in God-light
streaming through autumn leaves that twist and curl
in a death riot of vermilion and gold
when we’ve sung the voice of longing
composed by the notes
of our once-young ancestors’ eyes
staring out from black and white photos
when we’ve smelled the stench of cheap bourbon
numbing the decay
of motionless love
when we’ve been rufied into memory-less
loss of virginity
ripped cotton panties’
sweet little yellow flowers
stained brown with first blood
released years too soon
when we’ve passed unborn lives
into cold buckets
whisked away
with the hope we didn’t see
but we saw
when we’ve sung and danced with the newborn
that lived –
lives still –
sing our quiet song of secret omnipotence
and yes, even now, when we slip easily
into love that crosses borders
pierces time zones
infuses dreams with words we don’t know
laughs when knowing eyes meet
aches little deaths each time we part.
I will hold this secret, mi amor –
for now –
the only way I know how –
veiled in words:
Estaré cantando bajo la luna llena
para el infante que nunca vive
para la jovencita que se despierte con sangre
para la anciana que viene
riendo cuando oigo la voz de tu amor
muriendo un poco cada vez que nos separamos.