Читать книгу Happy, Okay? - M.J. Fievre - Страница 13

José Armando

Every time

she leaves me,

she packs

all my metaphors

in a torn

suitcase—all my cadences

& hyperboles,

even the syllables

of my own name.

I am left only

with a thick,

heightened

silence,

an absence

of verb.

I can no longer

write about what used

to be, about what is,

& all the future

holds out to me

in promises

is the blur of hot

breath & the howling

in my chest that can’t

make its way

through my throat.

My torment

cannot be

translated into

anaphora & dissonance.

Every time

you leave me,

dark things crowd

me: they don’t follow

you into the Metro after

your composed goodbyes

& well-behaved tears:

they yell

& make accusations:

they no longer

speak in stanzas

& pentameters: they move

in pangs, shakes,

little tiny heartbreaks

imploding

my ribcage, quick

tides of ache,

& moonless sleeps.

My twisted body

feels its every knot.

In my veins:

pure chaos.

Every time

you leave me,

I am legion

—until the sun rises

or doesn’t, until the harsh

light of the day moves

like a slow rolling

stone over the sky.

I want to make you

happy, okay?