Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Painting by Eve Riser Roberts When the Wind Tightens its Grip  You saw my legs and got up from the bed. Later you called  wanting assurance  it was not contagious. The flowers of cold died from a dry wind blowing from the north. But have no fear,  gypsies arriving on ships full of questions beg you not to forget them, the same as Modigliani's blue cat. Don't forget, I'm one of those men that never asks for anything.

Thoughts from my Second Date with Truth You gave me your truth, let me know how you attempted to save yourself from it. How else could we  have gotten  to know each other? Every word a gap, a small one.  Because we burn underneath, and so much light hurts. I dreamt that truth was One. I saw her approaching in silence in the form  of a woman constantly turning her soul on and off. Her soul growing in my heart, turning it on and off as well. Her word ascending over my word,  whipping clean whatever it was I had recorded  up to the very last punctuated period, the slightest one,  the one on my crossroad. We were so small  that up and down could not be distinguished.  So small we erased ourselves from our  heavenly sky of half truths, far from Grace. So small we became tiny bullets  willing to pierce other glass hearts.