some poems. i wrote them. that’s it.
.. the prophet..
the shelf of his shoulders
crowned by successive sunburns
radiated the warmth
of a rusty furnace
and his limbs shook
with the churning of ungreased gears
his words rasped against
the screen door
each syllable sturdy as a nail
they stuck to the fly papered porch
with stiff certainty
he had predicted drownings
the defiling of the preacher’s girl
every frost and farmer’s loss
all manner of infidelity
so when his foot fell on the gravel
fringe of the drive one
breathless afternoon
daddy disappeared
to load the shotgun
and swear
..note to smokers at bus stands..
you are the lonely kind
yellowed fingers
chipped nails
teeth chatterers
you have grown disabused
by fire
have been breathing it for years
while each ritual
sheds the sacred
you are a roaring pyre
on most days
and here you are, frozen
sipping on your own steam
..Verses to the Captain..
Pablo, Pablo, your devotion
would undo me, were i to be
your tiny-fisted Urrutia
your breath upon my lips
would poison me, if i were
your waster, your love is too thick
and covers like an unworn quilt
or guilt or honey, you
would devour me.
if you waded in the slender pools of my waist
held me up by the heels of your hands
tore the tangle from my head
to cloth your son, i would be
a rose returning to the bud
shrink and wither on your tongue.
Pablo, i would take your foot
if you tried to keep my hand
my legs are long enough
my toes never mind hot sand
and if you ever tried to leave me
you would be an unwhole man.
Pablo Neruda’s “Los versos del Capitán,” a collection of love poems inspired by Matilde Urrutia was published anonymously in 1952. Years later, after their affair was “legitimized” through marriage, he attached his name to the work. The fact that she was his third wife should not lead one to believe his words for her somehow have less passion or intensity. While I would never wish to be the third wife or the hidden-behind-closed-doors-mistress, I am immensely moved by this work. While reading the section of the book inspired by their fights or frictions, I desperately wanted to know Matilde’s side of the story. But since it seems she was more a singer than a writer, I wrote my own response. Please, Neruda, do not be angry. I am only an avocado. Small and green, I can fit in the palm of your hand. So soft you can be sure to crush me with nothing more than the backside of a spoon.
