Minimal poems for complex times
I
Dreaming during Winter
is like an embrace from your ex:
cold, nostalgic, almost orgasmic.
Because on the way there and back,
people return to those places
where they knew what sex was like
without restrictions.
II
I think of the bus window
that holds my breath
as I travel to grandma’s house
knowing that these are the last days.
Winter will not be the same.
III
I think of my wife’s curves,
the descent down her chest
until ending in her glory.
I think of how a human being can fall
for that body that loves him
and not die in the attempt.
I think that is hope.
IV
I have no suicidal thoughts.
I am grateful to life
that I still find pleasure in morning coffee
or in that glass of wine after lovemaking.
I have no suicidal thoughts
I just have complete uncertainty
about what death is.
Will it be like winter or autumn?
V
One cigarette.
Two cigarettes.
Three cigarettes.
So, progressively,
like mathematics,
until reaching lung cancer
VI
Hope
in the face of death
does not always have the last word.
However,
it always ends up being
the only boat
that sustains us in the storm.
VII
In all languages
the words sex, hope and death
maintain their meanings.
But it is cultures
that end up transforming
the way we live them.
Dying in Europe
is not the same as dying in America.
Many deaths in America
will never be recognized.
VIII
There are 4 places at the table.
I sit at the head of the table.
My parents, who are no longer here,
left their scent on two chairs.
On the last one is the trinomial:
love, hope and death
that accompanies me
while I think
of that woman who never arrived
IX
I pray,
I pray,
I pray,
I pray,
I pray every morning,
and every night,
hoping
that winter will be short.
I pray,
I pray,
I pray,
I pray,
to a plaster image
that my grandmother left me.
The image remains,
my grandmother has already passed away.
X
The last thing I’m looking for,
after thinking so much,
is a body that will keep me warm
when winter is at its worst.
A body that smells of hope.
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