Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Burn Lonely among petals pale as death, no hand to remove the frost.   I slip out of my skin into another time when there are no torments, Adam by my side an Aztec warrior ready to flatter me with a piece of my enemy’s heart. When I fall for his charm no harm comes to me as his salt melts on my tongue and I burn.

Swiftly Here I am thinking it all went so swiftly, one day seventeen, next sixty-one —what a word.

Hidden Stolen rhododendrons in my hand— the old imperfections of a heart at large. I draw near my rope’s end shrunk to common size, ignored in this tawdry harbor, hidden like a lizard beaten by history’s hazardous lack of action. Unlucky hero born in the province of the stuck record where the most watchful tailors go jobless and scissor cut their own patterns.   Blameless children stand looking at a field of horses, necks bent, tails streaming against the green backdrop of sycamores.

Rough disaffection,  do not look at my skin nor touch my lips.  The exterior that covers my bones in revelation needs to be moisturized with truth.  What are you seeing in my mirror this morning? The ease with which you deal with your pretentions? For I am your brother corrected and already raised. I have known you over and over again as I’ve lived throughout this city.

Reseco Áspero desamor. No mires   mi piel ni toques mis labios.  Estoy reseco sin esperanza de humectar la dermis que me cubre. 

If It Ever Happens that a Candle Goes Out It’s never the same longing that leads me into the dredges at the fishery. It’s always something unclear, muddied by what gathers around my eyes. Something like a cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours that are essential.  I think I see the day tossing back what it is shown.  But you cannot hope backwards or in reverse.  Someone I love has died, I am certain, but I cannot tell who.

Inventory the tyrannical empire of the absurd   the tears waiting at the curve the way you sheltered my heart the silence you dispensed like a wall in the dark lofts of desire the mother that died when you were a child the kiss that rotted on our lips the beach inhabited by worms the bed flying in a void the avalanche of gods and myths everything given and taken the shit we hopelessly dumped on each other the bread we shared the caresses, the weight of our open hands

fifteen and empty fried green tomatoes unable to get past the first two lines broken in combat the last thing I’ll hear is me

Breaching the Discipline of Time Someone once said I wasn’t born for the thick prose of hard labor, insisted I was pure and agile, like the sea breeze, a wave of fragrance in the petal of a rose breaching the discipline of time. Aren't we all?

In the Woods We found each other in the woods. His touch did not alarm me. It provoked a soothing sensation  as if I had been slightly salted. Our cars were still running.  There were cats everywhere, wild cats on the prowl  wanting to mate.  We got out of the cars to talk but soon enough we were touching each other.  The silence was thick. We allowed nature to watch.

Aubade I want us to watch the dawn while our faces turn toward each other and the clothes we wear burn off in the newborn light. You said we should always be brave.  I try to be every morning over my toothbrush and the waning stars. I stare through your eyes, your firm heart beating peaceful rhythms with determination and a brush of bells. 

old calendar…  a museum of Mayan  tapestries 

Your Name It is time for me to crack open my skull, see what’s inside, invent a new way of looking at things.  I know I am dying but why should that make a difference? People die one day at a time. I shall build a house that will stand forever, with a smile folding at the corner of my mouth, and a star sitting on my tongue like a stone around which your name blossoms distorted

old calendar … I let the dead sleep as they deserve

For the days when the lights switch on and off by themselves and all the voice messages are from enemies or other people Only the good old days lie between verses we have already written For the fruit of fear in each December Will this be the year earth refuses to forgive us with a blush of green For the assumptions of next winter’s chill and for the quiet days in between Your face mingled in the poinsettias after a brief rain  

waning moon trying to touch what matters

On my Bed Thinking About You If I could touch without hurting you I would run all the way to the river and back.  But nothing has changed. You are voiceless, crouched in some long-forgotten childhood hiding place, a dark jungle where every tree looks like every other tree. I long for your scent, your knees pushing against my thighs, but what is asked for is often destroyed by the very words that seek it. My bed is a fossilized prison where I learn to make love to you forever.

window shopping… the conversations  we won’t  be having

shrouded moon—  feeding a chicken  to the boa

Eulogy For Yorelys Beaten, raped, and murdered, our child lies in a coffin brutally deserted. What monsters with nightmares hidden in their eyes do things like this? Neither day nor night can heal her now. Soon the heat will fuse her lurid eyes  to diamonds her sullen tongue to quartz.   Then she will fly and never bleed again.