Odilia Rivera Santos
On sabbatical, i rode trains past old neighborhoods and noises familiar and new.
We met in secret cafés to speak of the past as if it were
at the very back of a cupboard.
It wasn't quite.
But it felt pleasant
to sit there
with you and recall
what color your eyes were then
and to see
their color now
and to try to match it all up
shades weathered by melancholy and fear
together, we speak of the not possible,
the not feasible and
look into each other's eyes
all the while thinking this is it.
It ends again but quietly this time.
I am again the one you see as foreign and too sensual.
It's that fixer-upper that costs too much to repair and instead is left to meld into the barren fields on which it was built.
time comes when we must identify the chaos makers
who come into our lives with their multitude of dramas
like cans at the back of a 'Just Married' car.
Walking away is difficult
when to stand there tilling the soil brings some false belief
about something I don't know -
building new foundations
a three-card monty game that eludes me
and before i've captured the movements of this game,
it's broken up
and the confidence trickster
with accomplices in tow,
is no where to be found