Exile
The mist devours the road, swallowing its shadows. Leaving, in place of the orange blossom, a milky shroud of emptiness.
Solitude in moving stasis: A dimness thus awakened that glides under the skin, and rips it from the bones like some caustic, molted identity.
Little by little, it clouds my eyes.
Creeps along the chest and plunges into darkness, prior to the unfurling of guilt.
My heart: A thunderous scar taking up residence on a solo journey. An open wound which means I exist only in her presence.
Alone: She and I. And they brothers.
The umbilical cord hauling the semiotics of their pupils. The tone of the voice, the gestures — half aliens to the self, yet a data-bank to justify the impossibility of existence without constant legitimation.
Almost no consolation for the internal brume of otherness. Except, perhaps, from a later time, some flashes of light returning as a fall of memories.
A pale subterfuge to crawl into the womb. To recreate the mother’s love before it collapses into oblivion.
My body: sheltered. Borne by her breasts. Lullabied by tres guitars and Nueva Trova beats.
An opaque joy that propels me toward her in a fresh attempt at salvation.
Finally, in the black of reality, a dreamed-of peace curling up in iridescent blue. Her eyes: A soothing, sunlit sea within the mist of exile.
