The black silk of your eyes
is the night’s gown.
Our hands find the right combination
and open a chest of digit pleasure.
A Tzompantli warning:
there are hearts staked on the tips of your fingers.
But there's no remedy,
because the miracle of dawn that you hide under the clothes
explodes my hands.
Now you are wrapped-girl
sheltered in my arms-huipil.
While your skin lights up
renovated notes for an ancient music,
I measure by hours the length of your neck.
(The sweet intersection of your lips
has cornered me
when I was looking for a shortcut to lose ourselves.)
At times you break the siege,
then I bind you again and we dance together.
Later, you reject me,
but a furious wave brings you back to me:
Yo no soy marinero, por ti seré.
We leave behind the last warning sign
and now I'm on a road
where you build and dynamite bridges.
In the end, Amazon,
you strain the bow of your back
and point accurate:
my heart rumbles
behind its white cage.
Roberto Mendoza Ayala
Ciudad de México
28 de mayo de 2015
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