Poem 4

Earl Grey

I do not know what it is that makes me feel
like a sprouting flower, spring’s attempt
to wake us up from cold November nights
and frost on the windows, when you talk to me,
or what it is that makes my legs feel like honey
and saxophones, just that you move through me
like viscose, and therefore I can never forgive you,
for having forgotten me, and when the autumn
takes back the ownership of the leaves,
the tree knows that after the death of winter
they will come back, as a child is born.

You were always what I loved
the most with winter -
cold lips, and our frosty exhalation
between them.

Dear, I do not want you
to remember this.

I want you to sing praises in major
and never hear the piano tones
in minor.

Read the books I left for you,
look after the smell
of parfait d’amour – summer roses,
violets, and the sweet, soothing fragrance
of almond trees,
and “Por San Valentino,
Los Almendros florecidos,”
you say.

Bring bread curbs to the park
and give it to the birds,
remember, they are hungry,
as the emptiness
in the bloated stomachs.

Bade her in cherry flowers
and give her Indian tea
as a gift, just as the grateful Chinese
thanked Charles Grey
for saving
his son

from being swallowed
by the ocean


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