Invitation to Dust
Am I poet or sheet of paper, my soul asks in the cruel infinite
/night of the sea that is never serene…
Manuel Ramos Otero, Invitación al Polvo
You, Manuel, the seductive arch
of a bay, a drop descending
on the half-light, feet circling
my suicide hour.
We were tangueros* of the same tile, tropical
byway, creek mist, and love's insomnia.
Dancers with the white
silent breeze of despair.
*Boleristas take their stilettos
for a stroll while you burn your tongue,
nail it to your pride.
I spit on you, all you neutered men
and women frightening children
playing in schoolyards.
You’re nothing but
a simple invitation to dust.