meditations on language
del amor tampoco o menos;
pero me pones pensar tu
si es posible mancar
lo que aún no haya tenido.
*
*
this morning the light comes
through glass as if it were
autumn, but there is no poem
in it. in english,
one can say only i miss you,
but that doesn’t cover
by half the september sun
he says i need.
in italian, mi manchi,
you are lacking to me;
a lesson in grapeskins
and empty palms.
in spanish the thing,
like autumn morning light,
gets nearer: me haces falta,
te echo de menos,
te extraño: you make me lack;
you make me less;
i miss you. like a third hand
to turn the door knob
when my arms are wrapped
around your waist.
lust, observed
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
in my hometown
the laundromat
doors are open at 3 in the afternoon
to catch whispers
of a triple-digit Ju-ly breeze.
the machines whir,
and there is country coming
through the overhead.
small talk is all in Spanish: que
calorcito, eh? black-
laced sweet nothings
of a frazzled mamá drip
from the handrail of one of those
little carts. the floor
is dirty, and the air
smells of bleach.
the coke machine doesn’t work,
but the dryers
are wonderfully efficient and she
feels more like mamacita
than she has in months, con-
siders bringing one
of those country songs
to life, stripping
down to her calzoncitos while
watching machines spin
sweat & loneliness from her thin bed-
room sheets.
