Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

On Warm Afternoons Your whispers call me, write the prophecies that die on my skin. I overflow in concave, flexible moments where everything I have invented about you fits. I never find the tender caravan of fans with which you cover your body, or the mutual days of ecstasies in the spaces of time. The reason hides in the shape of a bronze stone man. My imagination peeks to protect and avoid melting at inopportune moments of love. This is how blood travels  to the farthest corners of my tested sweetness, inhabiting the limits of your lusts full of mysteries. I escape your burning witchcraft with hands ready to rescue old tenderness. The swift banks of my memory suppress drunken details. I hear a dissertation embedded in the vases of death, the abys that rubs my shortcomings on your chest curls up, breaks the windows of your beach. Draws snakes with fangs that steal my hours of rest then stretches out on your seashore