For Every

For every field of battle,
for every kilojoule in anger,
for every hurt out of love,
for every night of tears,
for every laugh to humiliate,
for every blocking from pride,
for every word in distrust,
for every deed of resentment,
for every lie – period!
For every shout from rage,
for every love that wasn’t,
for every glance in disgust,
for every lash from the tongue,
for every slam in frustration,
for every minute of bickering,
for every burst of impatience,
for every one who wasn’t you,

I’ll kiss her 1,247 times
and I won’t be counting,

I’ll listen, listen, listen,
then kiss her tongue,

I’ll carry her to our bed
and follow her instruction,

I’ll talk, talk, talk,
until she says I got it,

I’ll get down on my knees
and anything else she wants,

I’ll take her to the moon
on Sunday afternoons.

Now…where is she?

Potosi

Potosi is so old, so tragic,
its history is forged
from wordless memories,
of voices so forbidden,
so buried,
we will never know its stories.

A silver tongue long raided,
its dignity smelted from flesh,
generations of silver crosses
praised in cathedrals
of indigenous bones,
monuments that will never talk
for all the silver in the world.

 

 

 

The Beyond Of My Atacama

You are the beyond of my Atacama.
The deeper of the blue of my sky.
The dark of the shadows of my clouds.
The sharper of the edge of my wind.
The heat of the dry of my desert.
The prehistory of the age of my plains.
The urge of the eruption of my volcanoes.
The capture of the rain of my lakes.
The weakness of the holes of my roads.
The rocks of the sand of my desert.
The promise of the shallow of my lakes.
The dreams of the land of my thoughts.
The water of the source of my rivers.
The light of the colour of my slopes.
The vacuum of the air of my altitude.
The path of the depth of my canyons.
The awe of the land of my travels.
The writer of the secrets of my stories.